


Partially A Ghost

by TikolaNesla



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/F, Family, Ghosts, Human AU, Lung Cancer, M/M, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Road Trips, Slow Burn, Smoking, Terminal Illnesses, basically the only relevant ships are nedro and belgmona, but theres found family AND actual family, lars is a bastard but we love him, lowkey found family, minor estukr/huttmol/luxsey/sufin/belaviet, past nedport/robul, so it's just. family.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-02-22 19:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13173570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TikolaNesla/pseuds/TikolaNesla
Summary: Lars Mooren has his life together, to some extent, but not to any sort of extent where he enjoys much of it. He has two vague friends, a job he only mostly hates, and a family, somewhere. But as his life comes to an end, he realises that "together" means nothing if you're still alone. Maybe the man masturbating on his ceiling will help fix that. Maybe in more ways than one.





	1. Ceiling Masturbator

**Author's Note:**

> Getting back into writing after several attempts! This'll be fun. Might hurt a bit, but that's what makes it fun! This is my first story in years, so bear with me and hopefully we're in for a good ride.  
> Warning that this chapter has a brief suicide mention.
> 
> Names:  
> Lars- Netherlands  
> Alin- Romania  
> Gunner- Denmark  
> Lyubov- Ukraine

Fuck mornings. Everyone hated mornings. Peel yourself off the bed, force some clothes onto your body, drink coffee, clean your teeth, fix your hair, and go. Every day without fail. Lars was convinced he was getting old- this routine was getting harder and harder by the day- but, at 33 years old, he still had just a bit to go until he could retire. His friend Gunner always said maybe he wouldn't be ageing so quickly if he smoked less. Lars always replied that Gunner was a pussy. 

Sometimes mornings could be nice. The first time you wake up with a new lover by your side. The first day of the holidays. The morning you sit up and you remember today is the day you'll finally meet an old friend you've missed. 

Those mornings are good. 

But then there are the bad ones. Hangovers. The emptiness on the other side of the bed after a breakup, the lack of warmth so present it's practically solid. The pounding of your heart after a nightmare. And, of course, this morning. This morning was just ridiculous.

He didn't even register what was going on for a few minutes. He just lay there, half asleep. Only one thing was on his mind.

_Friday. At last. One final stretch and you're free of these little shits for another two days._

One final stretch. A weekend. And then back to teaching. He opened his eyes and slowly realised there had been background noise to the morning, noise he had been hearing since he'd woken up. Gasping. Grunting. Like...

He looked up and yelped, sitting up straight all of a sudden. He was still dreaming. Surely he was still dreaming. There on his ceiling, lying directly above him, was a man. His hair was lanky, almost ginger but not quite. Closer to blond. And he was completely naked. With one hand clenching his hair and the other...

He was jacking off. On his ceiling. Nothing holding him up, just... floating there. Lars didn't really know how to react to that.

"Sir?" he tried, too confused and tired to be scared or angry, "Sir, who are you?"

Ceiling Masturbator seemed not to hear. 

"Sir, what the _fuck_ are you doing in my house?" he asked, louder this time.

At that, the stranger finally opened his eyes. They were wide and red like a rabbit stuck in headlights. One of those albino ones, maybe. He didn't say anything, just dropped his hands and floated down, his face uncomfortably near to Lars’s. Closer up, he could see one weird pointy canine in his gaping mouth, and an odd sort of shimmering translucency to him- he could almost, but not quite, see the door, right on the other side of him. 

"You can see me," the man croaked. He didn't sound embarrassed, not even vaguely ashamed. Just astonished.

"...Yeah. Evidently. Unfortunately, too. Gross."

He squinted at him. "Wow. Sorry for having a sex drive, asshole."

"Is this a dream? Am I still asleep?"

"Of course not." His voice sounded like a creaking door, but when he paused to clear his throat it suddenly became rather smooth, with a heavy Eastern European accent. "What would that mean for my existence? Everything I've ever known, my entire life and death, every dick I've had in my ass, all of it happening for the sake of your dream. That's just... egotistical."

Lars blinked at him. "When you put it that way, I, uh-"

"Think before you speak, Lars."

He was about to ask how he knew his name but decided, stoic as ever, that the show must go on, sighed, stood up, and went to get dressed. "Look away."

"I've seen it all before," Ceiling Masturbator pointed out casually.

"You've  _what_?"

"I live here, man. Well. Sort of live. It's more a case of I  _am_ here. Since I'm not technically  _living_."

Lars groaned, flicking through meticulously folded shirts. "Not living? So you're, what, a vampire? A zombie?"

"Of course not!" he laughed, "They only exist in stories, as far as I know."

"Then what are you?"

"Oh, isn't it obvious?" he asked, pausing for effect with a twinkle in his eye, "I'm a ghost."

"Great.” He didn’t even look up from his shirts. Blue vs. pink seemed to take priority over the dead man floating behind him. “Because they’re much less fictional. How much did Gunner pay you to do this? How did you get up there? If he's managed to attach strings to my ceiling, they better be easily removable."

Or at least, the pause was intended for effect. Lars, of course, was not so easily affected.

"Gunner couldn't fake this. I'm the real deal, baby."

"You're right," he mused, "Even he isn't this ridiculous." Having decided on a shirt, Lars turned to face him. "Right. Prove it. Shove your hand through me or something."

That, of course, would never be enough for Ceiling Masturbator. Cheeky grin saying more than any words could, he pulled back his leg to give him a swift kick to the balls. Reflexively, Lars's stomach folded in on itself a little, but the sharp pain never came, only the disturbing sight of the ghost's bare calf embedded in his chest and a freezing, numbing chill, like an ice cube had been shoved down his pants, or rather, a huge block of ice had been shoved between his legs and slid through his torso like a knife through half-melted butter.

"Jesus Christ! What the hell? Could you not just, I don't know, shove your hand through me, like I asked?"

He grinned sheepishly. "Sorry. It was kinda... for science."

Lars straightened himself out and started to change, accepting that Ceiling Masturbator really couldn't care less what he saw. "What's your hypothesis?"

"That you're really tired and need something to wake you up?" he tried.

"You could have-" Lars was about to finish his sentence but he suddenly collapsed into a coughing fit so aggressive he had to sit on his bed to steady himself.

"Asked?" the ghost prompted, gesturing at the glass of water by his bed in the absence of hands solid enough to give it to him, "Well, you're awake now, aren't you?"

"I have a shower," he rasped, reaching for the water, "I could have just taken a fucking shower."

"Ungrateful," he huffed, "Anyway, didn't you take one last night? You always take them in the evening so you can get ready quicker in the morning."

 He closed his eyes and drank his water. There was a short period of silence as he counted to ten in his head, trying to calm himself. "Stop knowing stuff about me."

"Can't help it, man. I live with you. I know loads. Your name is Lars Adriaan Mooren. You're 33 years old going on 60, you're a business teacher but you hate your job, you have 2 siblings you don't talk to, you smoke like a fucking incense stick, you fancy yourself a poet but your anthology's getting nowhere, and you're dying."

Lars blinked. "I'm what now?"

"A business teacher. You have been for a while."

"I know my job. What do you mean, I'm  _dying_? I'm only-"

"33, yes, I just told you. I wasn't even _30_ when I died, it can happen to anyone."

Lars frowned. "How did you die?"

Ceiling Masturbator shrugged, looking at his nails as if dirt was even capable of getting in them. "I was too pretty to live."

"So, an STD?" He stood up, having downed his glass of water, and made his way downstairs and into the kitchen, with the ghost following a foot or so above the ground, possibly to show off.

"Was that a joke?" he chuckled, "Didn’t know you made those. But yes, it was. Can we get back to the thing where you’re dying? That sounds more important.”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled, “With all due respect, uh…"

“Alin,” he supplied.

“Alin. I don’t know you. I don’t trust you. I don’t even particularly like you. Why would I believe you?”

“Spoken like someone who means it with all due respect,” Alin laughed, “You’re pretty blunt, you know.”

Lars sliced himself some bread and dropped it into the toaster. “So I’ve been told.”

“You can’t be sure,” he admitted, “I’m not even sure. But the theory the couple next door and I have is that the living can only see us if they’re a year away from not living. So, babies and… you.”

“Bullshit. Nobody lives there anymore, they moved out last-“ he paused for a moment. “Right. Obviously. They died there, didn’t they?”

“Top marks to you!" Alin laughed, "Both of them in the span of a month, way back in the 50s before I was even born. Eduard broke his neck falling down the stairs, and his wife Lyubov accidentally- but maybe on purpose, even she doesn't know- drunk-drove into the side of their house. Their son was in the car, but he got out with half of his arms intact.”

Lars was silent for a second, not seeming to notice that his cup was overflowing with coffee. “How can you say something like that with a smile on your face?”

“Haven’t spoken to anyone but them since I died, and they're old and boring and we have to shout out of our windows at each other since ghosts can't actually leave our houses. I guess I’m starved for conversation. I feel like I need to tell you every thought I’ve had in the last 30 years.”

He groaned as he wiped up the puddle of coffee on the table. “Please. Don’t do that.”

“Yeah, you’re right. You have to leave in five minutes. I’ll save you the time and-”

" _Five_?" he interrupted, "Shit!"

He was suddenly alert, inhaling his scalding hot coffee and half-toasted toast, hastily gelling his hair, and blowing off every comment Alin made about the possibility that he could concentrate on the fact that he was quite probably dying. Work took priority. Not crazy ghosts, or the incoming threat of death, or the dead couple next door. Just work. Teaching a room full of kids how inflation worked, or whatever.

"Can't you call in sick and deal with this?"

"What do you think, Alin?"

And with that he left. Driving off, leaving Alin alone in the house and leaving himself room to think was exactly what the doctor ordered. He liked to think while he was driving. Something about the gentle hum of the road just calmed him, traffic or none. He was away from Alin's ridiculousness for a while, away from the man who was really starting to make him wonder if he was going crazy, though, as he put on an old CD and waited by a red light, he doubted he was even vaguely rid of him. He supposed he would have to talk to him later, which he hoped was just a bridge he could cross when he got to it. Until then, until he had to get home and face whatever dumb shit Alin was going to say, he could run from his problems, immerse himself in teaching. As a tactic for going about life, it seemed so far to have worked. And if Alin was right? If Lars really was on his way out? Then his problems would have to speed up if they wanted to catch him in time.


	2. Aubergine Peach Waterdroplets McBluehearts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woop I'm on a roll. Happy new year kids. Lil bit of HuttMol in this chapter.
> 
> Names:  
> Jacob- Molossia  
> Adriana- Nyo Seborga  
> Oscar- Hutt River  
> João- Portugal  
> Elise- Liechtenstein  
> Morgan- Nyo Sealand  
> Chun-Mei- Nyo China

 

 

 

There were three types of people who took Business Studies with Mr Mooren: those that thought he was an asshole, those that thought he was strict, but a good teacher, and those that wrote weird shit about him on the walls of the girls' bathrooms. He could tell almost on sight which was which, though they tended to change over the years. Right now, he was dealing with Jacob Jones- a definite type A.

“Sir, I wasn’t!”

“Then why is your phone out, Jacob?”

“I was just using the calculator!”

“Oh, were you?” he asked, “Then why is your calculator also out on the table? Why do you have Snapchat open?”

“Oscar messaged me! I clicked the notification by accident!”

The kids around him- all type A, though Adriana was a former type C- laughed their asses off. Oscar Cooper, possibly the biggest type B in the class, just looked up from his paper at the mention of his name, cheeks red.

“Oscar’s been doing his actual work. If it’s not too much to ask, I’d like you to-” Another of his coughing fits cut him off. His students were mostly used to them by now.

“To what, sir?”

“To do the same,” he replied, picking up a water bottle from his desk and taking a long drink.

“It is, actually.”

Lars walked over to crouch behind Jacob and look over his shoulder. To nobody’s surprise, he had written nothing. “What are you struggling with?”

“All of it, man, I just don’t get it.”

“Maybe you would if you were concentrating on my explanation and not messaging…” he glanced at the phone, still open on Snapchat. Along the top of the screen were a string of emojis. “Aubergine, peach, water droplets, water droplets, blue heart, blue heart. Your friends have interesting names.”

Jacob rolled his eyes, looking as exasperated as Lars felt. “It’s just emojis, sir, it’s not hi- her actual name.”

Lars recognised the slip-up all too easily, but decided not to bring it up. Kids could be shitty. He got it. “Well, Aubergine Peach Waterdroplets McBluehearts will still be there after the lesson, okay? Turn it off and I’ll explain it to you from the top.”

 

After a long and arduous explanation that was definitely a ploy to get Lars to do his work for him, then more pointless arguments with Jacob and his table of type As, then an actual pleasant but subject-relevant conversation with Oscar, the bell went off for lunch. Lars set the kids free, collected in papers and made his way to the staffroom. The only other two teachers he really liked were already in there, stood by the microwave. Mr Pessoa was a sort of soft, charming man, easygoing on his students, but he had a temper on him if you pushed him, though pushing him took a lot. Mr Densen was ridiculously enthusiastic, ever going off topic to tell some inane anecdote, but people loved him. They taught History and English, respectively. Lars would not go as far as to say the three of them were particularly close, but they were friends, sure. Mr Densen and him went way back. Mr Pessoa was mostly just an ex he had to be around so much that pretending not to like him platonically, at the very least, was sort of futile.

“Lars! Hey, mate, you alright?”

Mr Densen- Gunner- was known among the three of them as the one person who ever knew what Lars was thinking. He was notoriously hard to read, but reading was sort of his job. That, and he knew what it looked like when Lars was upset.

“What? Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Rough morning, that’s all. Not to mention I had to deal with the charming Jacob Jones for the last hour.”

“You have him too? Talkative guy, isn’t he?”

“You could say that.” He took a fork and a flask of leftover spaghetti out of his bag. “Of course, you could also just say he’s a little shit.”

Mr Pessoa- João- chuckled. He sat up on the counter, sipping his coffee.

“Is this the famous Jacob that Oscar’s always complaining about?”

Gunner looked at him incredulously. “Oscar? As in, pretentious Oscar Cooper? He complains about Jacob?”

“Yeah, all the time. Why?”

Gunner smiled. “He spends half my lessons pretending not to stare at him. Vice versa too.”

João clutched his chest. “That’s so sweet.”

Lars, on the other hand,  just grimaced. “Really? Poor kid.”

“How so?”

“Jacob and his friends like to joke at his expense, I think. I mean, not always him, but pretty often.”

Gunner raised his eyebrows. “The plot thickens. Hopefully Jacob gets over himself.”

“Or Oscar.”

“Fucking cynic!" said João, flicking him in the arm, "Let him be happy, you little bastard.”

“I’m just saying!”

“Have a little hope in the world, Lars!” Gunner laughed, stealing a mouthful of his spaghetti.

It was in that moment that Lars saw a flash of dark green out of the corner of his eye, the familiar bottle shade that not one student was happy to call their uniform. He looked over, ignoring his coworkers’ gossip. Students weren’t allowed in the staff room. Not unless they had a good reason. And so, when he saw the girl- a younger one, maybe 13 at most- wandering around in there, ignoring the teachers milling around her, his knee-jerk reaction was immediate.

“Hey!” The girl gasped and looked right at him. She looked familiar. Her hair was tied back from her head in two fat, blonde plaits. “What are you…”

Before he could say any more, she vanished. Just like that. She melted away into thin air, a cheeky little grin on her face. And he remembered where he recognised her from.

“Lars, what are you doing?”

He shook himself off. “Nothing. Nothing. Mistook Elise for a student again. Sorry, Elise!”

Miss Biedermann, the new German teacher fresh out of university, looked up at him from across the room and shrugged her shoulders politely. “I get it all the time. Don’t worry about it.”

João gently punched his arm. “We get it, dickhead, you’re tall. Leave us short people alone, already.”

He didn’t look away from where the girl disintegrated. “Sorry, midget. I have… I have to take a piss. Give me a moment.”

He rushed away into the staff men’s toilets, leaving behind João’s cries of “I’m not even that short!”. He recognised her. The girl. He recognised her all too well. Her name was engraved into a plaque at the entrance of the school. It had been 11 whole years ago, almost. Morgan Kirkland in 8R had an asthma attack. She had been playing football with her friends, apparently. Until the breath was knocked out of her lungs, turning her into a wheezing lump on the ground. She died in the nurse’s office. And now, of course, he could see ghosts.

He could see her.

He had never taught Morgan, but he’d met her. Gunner's brother was her adoptive dad, and he had always insisted on dragging him and João to every family event that came up, insisting they were brothers to him or something. Lars was never particularly fond of Morgan, but he had known her. And now she was materialising right before his eyes, dangling upside down in the doorway of a cubicle.

“Are you going to tell me off for going in the boy’s bathroom?” she asked, her grin cheeky and wide, “Are you gonna call my dad?”

“Morgan,” he murmured, his voice soft out of both fascination and fear of being heard.

“Hey, Mr Moron. You can see me!”

He was reminded a little of Alin- she had the same ecstatic sparkle in her eyes at the prospect of talking to someone.

“Mooren,” he corrected, stifling another coughing fit unsuccessfully, though at least he came out of it still on his feet.

She made a face. “Yeah, yeah, whatever, moron. Take a joke! Bloody hell, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She laughed hysterically, as if her joke was even vaguely original.

“I… You… haunt the school.”

“That I do. It’s nowhere near as fun as it sounds, though. I’m _sooo_ bored. Nobody to talk to. There was Mrs Wang for a while, you know, the Food Tech teacher, but-”

“She died,” he nodded, remembering poor Chun-Mei’s funeral a year or two ago. She had kids. That was all he really remembered of it. But now, looking back, he realised she must have seen them too. He felt an odd kind of connection to her, thinking about that. “Of course.”

Morgan’s eyes lingered on Lars’s shoes. “I didn’t used to like her. She gave me detention all the time. But she was actually cool after I kicked the bucket. Or maybe I just liked having someone to talk to. Both, probably. I hoped she’d die in school so we’d still be able to hang out but she just retired. Died in a hospital apparently. I miss her.”

“Yeah, me too, kid. Didn’t know her that well, but she seemed nice.”

“I know.” She floated down from the doorway, flipping over on her way down. “You don’t really know anyone that well, even though you’ve worked here for aaaaages. You like Mr Pessoa, though, and Uncle Gunner. But you don’t talk to anyone else, not about anything but work. You’re kinda crap at letting people like you.”

Lars nodded, trying to pretend she hadn’t just completely dissected something very, very personal about him. “Sounds about right. Gunner and I knew each other since university, so it’s natural we’d stick together.”

“Yeah, whatever. I listen into a lot of conversations, y'know. Something to do or whatever. Like, damn, I always said school was boring but now I’m here constantly and there’s nothing to do. And at night it’s scary and nobody can talk to me and just… ugh. I miss my dad. I used to follow my sister around when she had parents evening just to see him, y'know? He just looked sad the whole time, though. I mean, he never really looked like any feeling, but you could tell he was sad. And then she graduated so I didn’t even have that anymore. It was just back to boring, boring, boring.”

She was complaining, Lars realised. Childish, whiny complaining. But there was so much more to it. Something about the way Morgan rolled her eyes as if to escape Lars’s betrayed some kind of despair. It was easy, especially at his age, to shrug off kids’ problems as not really that huge of a deal, but Morgan wasn’t so easy to ignore. No kid should have to go through all that.

“This school’s been around since, like, the 20s or something,” she continued, “and I’m the only person to have ever died in it. I guess that makes me special.” She floated up a little as she chuckled, the top of her head bobbing in and out of the ceiling. “Am I, uh, rambling? I think this is a bit of a long piss you’re taking.”

Lars nodded distantly. "Maybe a little. I should be going. Talk to you again soon, Morgan.”

Once again, the girl disintegrated into thin air. From somewhere in the bathroom, though he couldn’t quite put a finger on where, he heard her voice.

“Laters, Mr Moron.”


	3. A Man And A Wall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaa sorry it's been a bit of a wait. Chapter 3 Syndrome is a thot. Hope you enjoy!

Alone again.

Alin could handle alone. He was, almost by definition, alone. A part of him longed to have died in a hospital or an old folk’s home or something, somewhere he could be surrounded by the other dead. Actually, if he had lived long enough to die in an old folk’s home, that’d be great too. As it stood, he was in this old bastard’s house. Alone. Until now.

He looked around the house for his clothes. He couldn’t remember when he even took them off. Or where. But people preferred when they wore clothes around each other, right? Give or take the obvious exceptions? He may as well make an effort now. It had been years since anyone had seen him. The closest thing he got to interaction was talking out of the window at Eduard and Lyubov and the few ghosts on the road, which even then he could only do if Lars opened the window. Unfortunately, Lars usually left them closed, so they’d barely spoken in years. And apparently, the people living next door had moved out now.  So even if he did crack open the window, Ed and Lyubov wouldn’t be able to talk either. At least they had each other. At least he had Lars now.

Yeah. Not alone anymore. He had Lars. Stoical, brick wall Lars, as miserly with words as he was with cash. He was kind of a cock, yeah, but he was someone, and after all beggars can’t be choosers.

He had watched him live his life (by only the most literal definition of the word) for 12 years, give or take. It wasn’t unlike going to the cinema except you lived on the set, invisible to everyone, unable to leave, unable to do anything but watch the most boring but bizarrely human film you had ever seen. Lars was stoic beyond stoic, with all the feeling and compassion of a pebble. And yet when he was alone, he was a whole other person. He had seen the most human Lars Mooren there was. Singing along to the radio while he made coffee. Kissing his rabbit between the ears as he carried her into her hutch. Crying as he watched his Net Flicks. Trying to write his poems but getting stuck on a line and repeating variations on it aloud to himself until he figured out how to make it work. Forgetting to charge his telephone before he went to bed.

But then he saw him with his friends. The most off-guard he ever was with another person, and yet he saw a completely different man. Nothing (bar maybe a substantial amount of alcohol or pot) nudged his intense but unreadable expression out of place. Gunner could talk for hours, João spoke openly about his feelings, but Lars just… sat there, contributing only the flattest and most sarcastic of jabs from over his coffee. Lars Adriaan Mooren was leading a double life as a man and a wall. The thought made Alin kind of sad. When _he’d_ been alive, he’d been himself as much as he could, had lived loud and bright and worn his heart on his sleeve. Then again, Alin had been arrested numerous times and died before he could receive absolutely nothing from the many aging relatives who’d cut him out of their wills. Maybe Lars had a point there.

He found a legwarmer of his kicked halfway through the door of his bathroom and pulled it on. He vaguely remembered hurling them around at some point. Maybe it’d be- yep, there, levitating just above the toilet. Two things down, however many to go. How many clothes had he died in again? He’d figure it out.

He hadn’t liked Lars at first. He had immediately hated how he changed the house. Of course, it had changed again and again but he had really quite liked what the woman living there before had done with the place. She’d been quite the artist, painted bright murals on the walls and filled the rooms with plants and little sculptures, but she took the trinkets with her when she left. Lars, in her place, had painted over the murals in the cold, impersonal white that covered the walls now. Alin had tried to hinder his painting, tried to get his poltergeist on with the paint buckets and brushes, but he already knew that was all stories. He couldn’t even touch them. He had dipped his dick in the paint for a laugh and it had come out dry. So he decided to wait until Lars was dying to wind him up.

His coat was in the oven, though still entirely raw. He couldn’t quite remember why he had put it in the oven. Maybe a criticism on Lars’s cooking, not that he was able to eat any of it. God, he missed food, though. He pulled on the coat, bright pink going very well with the even brighter green of his left legwarmer. At least now he was decent by Lars’s standards. Or maybe not by Lars’s, but by those of someone who actually knew when to let his hair down. Good enough. Still, the hunt was fun, so he carried on looking.

Lars had slowly grown on him. It was those same little things that made him so human, Alin guessed, that made him kind of endearing. It was like they had their own little secret between them, like he trusted him more than anyone in the world.  He recognised their relationship was about as one-sided as you could get, but he had always reckoned Lars needed a confidant, a friend he could be himself with. And now he could see him! Now they both had a friend! Alin laughed out loud at the thought.

“I have a friend!” he announced to the room, “A real friend!”

The room didn’t reply, but he did find his scarf tied in a pretty purple bow around the spare bike Lars kept leaning against the wall. 

-

When Lars came home from work hours later, he was surprised to find Alin fully dressed. Maybe he would be less surprised by this if Alin was dressed in something other than short shorts, mismatching legwarmers, an obnoxiously patterned jumper, a little purple scarf, one fingerless glove, a snapback with the Ghostbusters logo on it, and a bright pink trench coat. He was quite something to look at. Lars got the immediate temptation to get a prescription for glasses.

“Welcome back. What’s crackalackin’?”

Lars squinted at him in disdainful confusion. “Did you just ask me what’s “crackalacking”? What are you wearing?”

“Clothes! It’s been a while since I wore clothes. I realised ghosts didn’t feel cold at one point and never really looked back.” He sounded awfully proud of himself for that.

Lars raised his eyebrows and simply dumped his bag on the sofa, which was swiftly followed by himself. “I’m not sure that’s an improvement, but you do you, I guess.”

“While you were out I _also_ realised that I might have to start wearing clothes at some point. But if you’re going to be rude about them I will gladly take them back off for you.”

“Is that a threat or are you flirting with me?”

Alin nibbled his lip in thought for a moment. “Hmm… Yes.”

Lars shook his head in disbelief. “Out of all people to haunt my house it had to be the insufferable little shit.”

“And out of any of the people who could have started dying in my house it had to be the guy with the stick up the ass.”

Lars shot a sharp look at Alin. “It’s _my_ house.”

“I’ve been here longer than you’ve been alive, dude.”

Lars shrugged. “Sure. But I’m at least alive. Dude.”

“Not for much longer.”

Really, Alin? Really? You were going to joke about that? It had been a _day_. “ _Alin_ ,” he said sharply, smirk falling away.

“You joked about my death first! I- fine. You’re right,” he grimaced, “Sorry. How are you handling it so far?”

“Fine,” he shrugged, “It’s all fine.”

Alin’s eyebrows arched. As if.

“What are you, my mother? I’m fine. Quit worrying about me.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Lars squinted at him. “You said it with your eyes.”

“You’re in denial,” Alin realised, patting him ineffectually through the head, “I’ve had my fair share of that. It’ll hit you soon and demolish you.”

“I’m not in denial,” he insisted.

“You are.” Alin held his thumb and index finger a few millimetres apart. “Maybe just a teeny weeny little bit. In fact, you’re in denial about being in denial.”

Lars pinched the bridge of his nose, thumb roughly rubbing below his eyebrow. It had been a long day. The drive home had been weird. He kept slowing for people to cross only for them to look at him in surprise just long enough for him to notice their translucency. He needed coffee, alcohol, a joint, or all of the above after he’d procrastinated and then eventually marked everyone’s work. What he didn’t need was a guy in one glove and a _Ghostbusters_ hat telling him what to do. “Listen, Alin. Maybe you’re right. Maybe the earth-crushing impact of my impending demise or whatever has yet to hit me. But so what? It will, in time. And until then, I’m going to prolong the fuck out of the inevitable, okay?”

Alin arched his eyebrows. “It’s your life you’re wasting.”

Lars snorted. What was this guy on about? “It’s been a day, Alin.”

“It goes by fast. You only have 365 of them. At most.”

“We don’t even know if I’m actually dying. I mean, if ghosts are a thing, is it really that implausible that I could see them without dying?”

Alin, who liked being smug a lot more than he disliked being a dick to dying men, gave him a knowing smile. “You’re definitely in denial.”

“Fuck you.”

“Go see a doctor. Then you’ll actually know!”

Lars winced slightly as if admitting it was only marginally less painful than actually going, which in turn was barely better than a swift, armour-clad knee to the balls. “I don’t like hospitals.”

“You also don’t like not knowing, right? Go, you dumbass. Prove me wrong.”

Lars didn’t answer, just hefted his backpack into his lap and took out his laptop to check next week’s lesson plans. He had never been one to admit defeat, but that night, after having worked and cooked and eaten, he had made himself an appointment. Just to prove Alin wrong.


	4. We Met On The Google

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names:  
> Dr Bayuga- Cameroon

Lars was never fond of hospitals. Who was? He liked the neatness, he liked the free hand sanitiser, he liked that they stopped people from dying, but he never liked them. You weren't allowed to smoke in there. And he didn't like to think of all the stuff that people went through under its roof. There were a lot of ghosts there. They made it really hard to ignore that. They drifted around the waiting room, some talking amongst themselves. Two seemed to be placing bets on what people were suffering from. When they looked at Lars, he looked straight back at them.

After that, they shut up.

When he was called in, the fun really started. He told them his smoker’s cough and tendency to get tired were worrying him, leaving out mentions of the undead and whatnot. He knew what to say. He had talked to Alin about what he might be dying from.

“Obviously lung cancer,” he had immediately said.

“Obviously?”

“Dude.”

Lars had tried to argue, but a quick glance at the symptoms had shown that he had basically all of them.

“Fuck you, Alin.”

Then there were the x-rays, the CT scans, the stupid fucking bronchoscopy, the whole tedious, vaguely terrifying process. At least Dr “Call Me Fabrice” Bayuga was friendly, albeit a little talkative. He immediately seemed to Lars like the kind of person who would give him _that_ look after he had one of his coughing outbursts- that soft, pitying thing people did where they tilted their heads and told him it sounded nasty. Within seconds, Lars proved himself right. Still. Nice man.

He had waited for way too long for the results to come back. How long did it take to play “Where’s Wally?” with a couple of blurry lung pics? It wasn’t even hidden in plain sight with a little hat. It was a tumour big enough to kill him in a year. Fuck’s sake.

He had tried to distract himself- bought himself a horrendous coffee from the vending machine, fucked around on his phone a bit- but he couldn’t think straight. Not nervous, exactly, just restless. There hadn’t actually been anywhere near as many butterflies in his stomach as he felt there probably should have been. Like it was just some other guy he was watching die. Except maybe without the attached sympathy. More like watching a character he was indifferent to get what had clearly been coming to him since he was introduced on some poorly-written TV show he watched in the hope that there would be better stuff later. Shouldn’t he have been feeling a little bit more about this? Or was the knowledge that he’d come back anyway simply softening the blow? He hadn’t been sure. He’d never been good at emotions.

He was called back to Dr Bayuga. He had known what was coming as soon as he saw the face. It couldn’t have been an easy job, breaking the news. He must have done this time and time again- telling people they were dying, telling their families they were dead. He wondered if it ever got easier. He wondered if that made it worse.

“So we’ve had a look at your results,” the doctor began. “And-“

“Lung cancer,” Lars interrupted. He’d rather he cut to the chase.

He nodded. His eyes had looked gentle behind the little red frames of his glasses. Lars didn’t need his pity.

“Terminal?”

Dr Bayuga nodded again. “Terminal.”

“How long?”

“It’s not an exact science. By our estimate, you’ve got 10 months. There is treatment you could go in for. It might give you a little longer.”

“I don’t want it.” What was the use? Alin was right. A year, at most.

“I know this all must be a shock to you, but it’s not advised to make split-second decisions on these things.”

“You kept me waiting for half an hour. I thought it through.”

Dr Bayuga raised his eyebrows. “Fair enough. You’ll still come in for regular check-ups, see how you’re doing, but the choice is yours. There are, of course, risks involved-“

“Yeah, I get it, I’ve made my choice. Can I go?”

And so he had driven home. There were ghosts on the roads, he started to notice. Other drivers probably hated him- he’d start stopping so they wouldn’t get run over, only to realise they didn’t have to worry about that anymore. He’d get used to it eventually. Probably figure out how to tell the difference on sight. Or at least, he hoped so.

Even now, on his own, where nobody would notice it unless they were looking for it, he couldn’t cry. He couldn’t feel a whole lot of anything. Funny how that worked out. Maybe it would hit him soon. It was probably a matter of time. A delayed response. Right now he felt fine. Not good, but fine. Like he was coming home from work any other evening. Like he hadn’t just found out he was dying.

He parked outside his house and stepped inside. He found Alin sitting on the ceiling, legs crossed, apparently having attempted to use his scarf to tie a ponytail. His hair wasn’t long enough. It looked like he’d just stuck a giant purple knot to the back of his head.

“You dying?” he immediately asked, trying to stop it falling out and failing.

Lars shot him a look. “Obviously.”

“Was I right?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

He glowered up at him and sat down on the sofa. “Fine,” he groaned, gritting his teeth, “You were right. Asshole.”

He ignored his laughing and got out his phone.

 

**Lars**

Just got news.  Come over asap. Bring a lot of alcohol.

**João**

No!! It’s Wednesday!! You were already off today!! I’m not letting you two come in hungover tomorrow!!

**Lars**

Big news. Non-negotiable.

**fartblast**

how could i say no to a lot of alcohol in the middle of the week i would die for u thanks

**João**

No don’t encourage him

**Lars**

Alcohol is necessary.

**João**

Celebratory or in a feeling-drinking way?

**Lars**

Be there and find out

**fartblast**

do u need us 2 fight anyone

**Lars**

Be there and find out.

**fartblast**

wooooo man of mcfuckin mystery

eat my ass

**Lars**

Are you going to be there or not

**João**

Course we are. Be there in 40-ish mins, I’ve gotta get booze on the way xx

**fartblast**

bitc th!! i’m already there + drunk

**Lars**

We’ve been talking for 2 minutes. You live 15 minutes away.

**fartblast**

yea i know i don’t even have my shoes on <3 love u buddy

 

“So you can just… send them written words through your telephone?” asked Alin, now floating over his shoulder, “And _pictures_? Amazing.”

Lars didn’t look up from his phone, reading through their conversation again. “I told you. Yes. Can you stop with the irrelevant questions? “

“Right, right, impending death. Sorry.”

Lars fixed him with a look. “Do you really have to phrase stuff so nonchalantly?”

“Not to make, like, a molehill out of a mountain or whatever, but what’s the big deal? It doesn’t stop at death, I’m proof of that. You carry on going, just a little spookier now.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to get it. Just stop talking like that.”

Alin smiled apologetically and Lars would have punched him if he was a little more solid. “I do get it. There’s a lot on your plate. Sorry.”

Lars opted to change the subject before he _really_ started pissing him off.

“Do you think it matters if I smoke? Given that I’m dying anyway?”

Alin shrugged. “I don’t know. You may as well.”

“You’re a terrible influence,” he told him, taking a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, “But I would have done it anyway.”

“Happy to help! And I must say, I’m flattered you take my advice so seriously.”

Lars pointed his cigarette at Alin. “Shut up. You’re wearing legwarmers. I don’t have to take anything about you seriously.”

“Oh, sorry,” Alin scoffed, “Guess I’ll just have to pop off to ghost H&M so that you, a guy who smokes despite being _literally_ about to die from smoking too much, will take me seriously.”

Lars decided that trying to steer this conversation to a place that wouldn’t piss him off was futile. Instead, he sat down to get some marking done. Because that was an appropriate thing to do immediately after finding out you were dying. It wasn’t like Jacob’s idea of work could stress him out more than he already was.

Still. Maybe he better stick to marking the less annoying kids’ answers.

Just as he opened his second booklet to the right page, he was rescued by the sound of his doorbell. Finally. He opened the door to see João standing there, plastic bag in hand and confused expression on face. He gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

“Hey, man, what’s up? What happened?”

Lars just took the bag and let him in. “When Gunner gets here, we’ll talk about it.” He looked in the bag. “Wasabi peas? I could kiss you. Go sit down.”

“Will you stop being shady?”

“No. Absolutely not. Couch. Go. Now.”

João rolled his eyes and sat down. “Good or bad news? Tell me that, at least.”

“Big news. Big, don’t-tell-it-twice-y news.”

“Lars.”

“…Bad news.”

João glared. “Now you have to go into detail. Come on. Don’t leave me worrying.”

“Watch me.”

Before he could protest, the doorbell went off again. Gunner was stood at the door with a bike. The whole gang was here.

“Gunner. Lock your bike up outside. Also, why did you bring your bike? You are not cycling home drunk. _João_ walked.”

Gunner gestured behind him to a red car. “No he didn’t.”

“God, you're both so fucking stupid.”

“I can _hear_ you!” João called, “Gunner, come in before Lars draws out the suspense any longer!”

Before long, the three were together in the living room, a bowl of wasabi peas and an unnecessary amount of alcohol weighing down the coffee table. They sat either side of him, João leaning comfortably on the arm of the sofa and Gunner with his legs crossed.

“So,” Lars began, “Sorry, let me just…”

He picked up a beer and drank an inadvisable amount of it in one mouthful. Then he put it back down, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and started again.

“So. I’m dying.”

João and Gunner stared at him blankly.

“Do you mean in, like, a “we’re all dying”, mid-life crisis-y way?” Gunner asked, “Because you’re 33, you’re not allowed a mid-life crisis yet.”

Lars hesitated for a second, and eventually just shook his head. And that was when it happened. Everything he should have been feeling the past few hours came rushing up to him. Delayed response. It rose up in a tidal wave and knocked him down, washed over him. He couldn’t do this. This couldn’t be happening. It was ridiculous, just ridiculous, he was _33_ , he couldn’t be dying. He was supposed to live his life. Not the one year of it he had left. This whole thing was just… stupid. So fucking stupid.

He didn’t realise he was crying until João hugged him. He didn’t realise the other two were crying until Gunner hugged both of them.

“Lung cancer,” he managed to croak out, “I went to the hospital today. 10 months, might be sooner. Probably won’t be later.”

Neither of them said anything to that. The three of them just sat there together, João’s arms around Lars, Gunner’s around the both of them. Lars felt a shiver down his spine and looked up to see Alin rubbing his back gently, his wrist going straight through João’s arm. If he didn’t feel self-conscious about crying before, he certainly did now. Still, it was nice. He couldn’t remember the last time he had hugged anyone like this. Definitely nice.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Hey, man, don’t ever apologise for feeling shit,” Gunner whispered back, “This is a feeling-shit situation.”

“Shit as a noun or shit as an adjective?”

“Yes.”

Despite himself, Lars chuckled. “Thanks. Both of you. I… thanks.”

“I can't lose you, man,” João whispered, “I love you.”

They lapsed back into silence for a while. The “I love you too” was unspoken but they all heard it. He loved them both. He really did.

“You need a bucket list,” Gunner eventually said.

“I do not,” Lars scoffed, shrugging them both off him.

“Actually,” João piped up, “If you’re retiring, you may as well do something with the time.”

“There’s nothing I want to do,” he pointed out, then immediately realised how sad that sounded, “I mean. Not off the top of my head.”

“Then we’ll help! You got paper?”

Lars groaned. What did he ever do to deserve João? “Fine, fine, since we had our heartfelt moment. But I hope you realise you’re taking blatant advantage of a dying man’s kindness. That’s low.”

“I can live with that. Paper?”

“On the bookshelf. Black box.”

Gunner took out a sheet and a pen.

“Item one, you talk to your brother and sister,” he immediately said, writing it down.

“What? No!” Lars tried to grab at the paper, but it was already there in black biro. “You little shit!”

João shot him a look and he stopped protesting.

“Fine. Fine, I’ll track them down.”

“Ooh! Ooh! I have one!” João grinned.

“It can’t be more stupid than the first one.”

“Where do you want to go? Like, more than anywhere?”

Lars shrugged. He had never thought about it. “Not really that interested in travel.”

“What about that road trip we talked about that one time?” Gunner suggested, “That never happened!”

“Where would we go?”

“I dunno! Let’s do it anyway!”

He wrote “2) ROAD TRIP WITH AMAZING FRIENDS” on the sheet. Then he drew little stars around the words “amazing friends”, which Lars pointedly ignored.

The conversation went downhill from there.

“Have kids!” João suggested five beers later, stuffing his mouth with wasabi peas, “Jesus fucking _Christ_ , that’s spicy!”

“I like men, João!” Lars protested.

“But we need! More! Larses!”

“No! One is already too many. No. Bad.”

Thankfully, Gunner didn’t insist on writing that down.

“Ooh! Ooh! Have sex on-“

“Let me stop you right the _fuck_ there.”

-

The next morning, Lars woke up sprawled on his sofa. His skull was full of bees and the entire sun was in his living room, making it very difficult not to look directly at it. The bottles were cleaned off the coffee table, leaving only a few coasters and the list in their place, and Amália Rodrigues was playing on the record player Gunner had bought him about 10 Christmases ago. It hurt his head, but the music itself wasn’t so bad. Once he had somewhat adjusted to being awake-ish and alive-ish, he rolled off the sofa.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

“Shut up, Alin,” he groaned.

João blinked at him from the doorway of the kitchen. “Who's Alan?”

“Oh. Nobody. You still here?”

“Yes. Has anyone ever told you how you're a wonderful host?”

“Sorry. Hungover.”

João snorted. “Lightweight. It's cool, I called in sick and I'm making coffee and eggs.”

God, what an angel. Lars would fight an entire horse for this guy. “I was saving those.”

“Oh, sorry. What for?”

He shrugged. “Eggs.”

“Well, now they're eggs. Just how you like them.”

“How do I like them?”

“Are you testing me?”

Lars shook his head. “Genuinely have no idea.”

“Boiled.”

“Right. Boiled. And you like yours…” _Shit_ , how did he like his eggs? He'd made him eggs before, right? Back when they were together? Wait- yes! That morning a couple years ago when he got sick, he'd made him breakfast. Eggs. Just how he liked them. “Boiled.”

“ _You_ like them boiled,” he laughed, “Scrambled, Lars. Scrambled.”

Fuck. Scrambled. How did he not know that?

João brought him his eggs and coffee and sat with him on the sofa with his own. “So. Alan, huh?”

“Alin,” he replied quickly, “Like I said, nobody. Pulled the name out of nowhere. Probably dreamt it. These are good eggs. Shut up.”

João gave him a look. “You corrected me. Come on. You seeing someone?”

“I’m always correcting you. Why is _that_ the conclusion you jump to?”

“Why else would you be talking to someone first thing in the morning?”

“I- what? What do you call this, then?”

“Have we not dated?”

“Five years ago. Literally five entire years ago.”

João looked incredulous. “Five?”

“Time flies. Anyway. Alin is just... someone I know.”

“Someone you know?” João grimaced. “Oof. Acquaintance-zoned.”

Lars punched him in the shoulder. “Shut up.”

“So, how'd you meet? Spill the tea.”

_Well, João, I woke up one morning and he was beating his meat on my ceiling, directly above me, and now I’ve found myself somewhere in the same ballpark as tolerating him._

“We met on… line. Online. Internet.” That would deter him- he was the biggest technophobe Lars had ever met.

“You hate online dating. You think Tinder’s for losers.” Damn it, João really did know him.

“Well, I told you. We aren't dating.”

“Then where'd you meet?”

“On the…” Shit, where would you meet someone? “Google. We met on the Google.” _Oh, for fuck’s sake, Lars!_

“On the Google.”

“Yeah. The Google. It's, uh, internet.”

“Cool. What's he like?” Thank god for João's technological incompetence.

“Fine, I guess.”

“Is he cute?”

Lars wasn’t dignifying that with a response. Luckily, a well-placed coughing fit stopped him from having to.

“Are you okay? You need some water?”

Lars just drank his coffee to save him the trouble. “It's fine,” he wheezed, “Just a smoker’s cough.”

“You have lung cancer, Lars.”

“Yeah, that too.” He looked up from his cup to see João’s brows knitted in a frown and his lips set in a grim frown. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

“I have lung cancer, João.”

He leaned on his shoulder. “Sorry. Stupid question. I love you, man. I hope you know that.”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant. I meant you’re not allowed to do all this fussing over me shit. It’s annoying, and I’m sick, and you can’t annoy sick people. You will make my lung cancer worse.”

João seemed to concede a little, but he didn’t get off his shoulder. “So I can have your eggs?”

Lars stuffed a forkful in his mouth. “Absolutely not.”


	5. With Your Hair Off And Your Glasses Messy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck yeah siblings
> 
> Names:  
> Laura- Belgium  
> Céline- Monaco  
> Luca- Luxembourg  
> Angélique- Seychelles

Laura De La Fontaine-Mooren. And her wife, Céline Mooren-De La Fontaine. Or would it be the other way around? Would it be in the same order for both of them? Céline would know, probably. She knew a lot about tradition. She was a sucker for good old-fashioned romance, which incidentally was why she had taken her here of all places. It was a beautiful French restaurant in the centre of Antwerp, the walls painted in rich but tasteful shades of red and gold, the ceiling arching like a church, the comforting sounds of piano music and subdued chatter in the air. Getting reservations had been a pain, but she was glad she'd got them. Céline had been hinting they should go here for ages, but Laura had wanted to save it for something special. Like today. Today was special.

She'd really gone all out. She was quite proud of herself, actually. After all this time together, she knew what Céline liked. She had planned it well. A lazy morning eating breakfast in bed, then further activities involving eating in bed, then the art gallery, then a late picnic lunch in the park, then the theatre, and now, here. The perfect day.

The perfect buildup to a proposal.

She closed her eyes and clasped her hands together under the table. Getting her words together had always been a struggle. She had had to write herself a script on her phone and memorise it in case she chickened out. Which she might still do, actually. If she did, she supposed she could just write it out and leave the whole script lying around until she found it. That was a romantic way to propose, right? Right?

_Come on, Laura. You can do this._

"Céline," she rehearsed under her breath, a final practice before she got back from the toilets, "You're the best friend I've ever had. You have been for the last three years. And for the last two, you've been my girlfriend too, which I really didn't think was possible at the time, but here we are. I’m in love with every little thing about you, from the sound of your voice to the way you look in the morning with your hair off and your glasses messy... oh, god. Hair messy. Glasses off. With your hair messy and your glasses off. Shit. What's the next bit again?"

Running a clammy hand through her hair and tucking it behind her ear, Laura took out her phone to open the notes app and look over it again, only stopping to glance at the notifications on her home screen.

Text from Carlos, someone liked her post, a reminder that she was having dinner with Céline in case she'd forgotten somehow...

Oh.

 

 **Twitter**  
Lars Mooren followed you

 

Holy shit.

Holy fucking  _shit_.

Her heart stopped. It all came rushing back to her, things she had tried not to think about. The sudden sound of breaking glass. Holding her brother tight in the waiting room. The sinking feeling when the phone rang itself to silence for the tenth time. She forgot all about the proposal. Change of plan. Something more important had come up.

Was this her Lars Mooren? Her big brother? Surely not. Surely it was some other Dutch guy. It wasn't that uncommon of a name. But what if it was him? After all these years? Possibilities blasting through her mind, she opened it quickly before she ended up having a panic attack in the middle of the restaurant. That was him. His face was right there in his icon. His hair was shorter, he was almost fifteen years older, and a scar had found its way onto his forehead, but it was him. Her brother. Following her entirely out of the blue. Tears threatened to spill, tickling at the corners of her eyes as she started looking through his pictures. He was okay. Happy. He had friends, he had a nice house, a garden, he was doing well. It took her a moment to notice the tears running down her face.

She looked around furtively to make sure nobody was staring, and rushed to the bathroom, clinging to her phone. As she ran into a stall and sat on the toilet seat, a few women turned their heads from the mirror to look. Only one actually stopped fixing her lipstick to check on her.

She knocked gently at the door. "Laura? Is that you, my darling?"

Laura smiled through her tears. Céline. Everything was going to be okay. "Yeah, it's me."

"What's wrong?"

In response, Laura simply leaned over and unlocked the door, letting her in. Céline locked it behind her as she stepped in.

"Do you want to tell me?" she asked, crouching to her height- really not that far to crouch for Céline, "because it's okay if you don't."

"Nothing's wrong, Lou. Or… I don't know."

"Need to go home?"

She shook her head. "Sold my soul for reservations here. Let's not be drastic."

“Laura, this is more important than some dumb restaurant.”

“Babe, I'm fine.”

“Did something happen or is it just anxiety?"

Laura handed her the phone, Lars's profile open. Suddenly, she felt stupid about this.

"Lars? Gosh, that's wonderful! Why are you upset?"

"I don't know! I… I don’t know. Just… just anxious? Like, why, you know, and why now? I don’t know, it’s dumb.”

"Laura."

She laughed at herself nervously. "Sorry."

"What did we say about 'sorry', darling?"

Laura took a deep breath. "Right. There's nothing to be sorry for. Sorry. Fuck, sorry." She laughed again, properly this time.

Céline kissed her cheek, leaving behind a little pink mark. "There's my favourite smile. On my favourite lady. Will you be okay to sort yourself out while I go back to our table?”

“Wait a bit. I have to… something.”

Céline nodded. “Alright.”

“Céline?”

The sudden change in her tone might have given her a hint.

Her hand found the box in the pocket of her dress.

Oh  _god_ , she was doing this.

* * *

 

If deadlines were a person, Luca would have bested her in hand-to-hand combat by now. Or at least, tried to. And then had the living shit beaten out of him. Such was his ability in combat, not that he had ever had the chance to find it out for himself, which probably meant it was bad. Unless he just had a shit ton of untapped potential. Maybe he should fight someone. Then he reminded himself that a) he was a pacifist and b) he had far too pretty a face to get punched in it.

This thought process was, at that moment, what was keeping him from the thing the deadline in question was actually for. The point was, fuck deadlines. His editor had asked for this article by tomorrow and he barely had three quarters of it. He'd managed to get an interview with Angélique Belmont- yes,  _the_ Angélique Belmont- through his connections (or rather, through the pure coincidence of her being his sister’s girlfriend’s best friend) but like the dumbass he was, he'd wasted his time flirting with her. In his defence, she was very cute, if very out of his league, and he'd successfully got her number. For anything else that he wanted to ask. But still. A number.

He read through the article again, but his brain wouldn't focus- he just read the same sentence over and over. Maybe a quick break and a coffee would help. Half an hour wouldn't kill him, surely. Unless it did. But probably it wouldn't. He shut his laptop and set to work getting some coffee made. As the water boiled, he reached onto the shelf above the counter for his phone. It was a good place to leave it while he was working- far enough out of the way to not distract him, but not so well hidden that he'd forget where he put it. Like the sock drawer incident. At least he'd learnt from that.

He unlocked it as he opened his fridge and got out the milk. A text conversation with his sister was already open. The last message from him read, “Good luck! You won't need it- she’s bound to say yes.”

He hoped she would; Luca had introduced them, which meant that their wedding would basically be his wedding. He'd already made Laura promise him royalties off their babies. Plus there was the matter of love and Céline being perfect for her and all that stuff, he supposed. They'd be at the theatre by now. He’d chosen the play, of course- he'd helped her plan the whole date while he was supposed to be writing. Probably why the deadlines were kicking his ass now, actually. But come on, what was he supposed to do? Luca loved love! And if Laura needed help on keeping it classy, who better to come to?

Still, she owed him one if he didn't complete this article on time.

He opened Instagram absentmindedly while he got out a mug. He wasn’t even really aware he was doing it- he just wanted to be doing something with his thumbs- until his eye landed on a name in his notifications.

 

 **larsmooren** has started following you

 

The mug fell from his hand and shattered into pieces on the tiles. He barely noticed. Lars Mooren. His brother, technically, not that he was jumping at the chance to affiliate himself with him. His backstabbing bastard of a brother. He hadn't seen him in 14 years and Luca would rather not change that if it was all the same to him.

Curiosity got the better of him. He scrolled through his posts- pictures with friends, pictures of flowers- he  _gardened?_  It was bizarre. He seemed so  _normal_. Luca didn't know what he'd been expecting- he didn't just sit in a room all day grumbling about the entire concept of compassion under his breath. Something eviler, he guessed. But it didn't matter, did it? Being a person didn't make one any less of a bad person. He didn't owe Lars his forgiveness and he wouldn't get it, not if his life depended on it.

He ignored the kettle. He needed a little more than coffee- a glass of wine. A bottle maybe. He went to get one out, carefully avoiding the ceramics shattered all over his floor. He'd clean it up later. Wine first. The article going ignored and unwritten, he flopped down on his couch, bottle in one hand, phone in the other, and poured himself a glass.

Just… why? Why now? Why did he have to come back at all? Luca would be more than happy never to see Lars again. Lars clearly didn't care about him. If they stayed as things were, life would go on. They could never speak again for as long as they lived, forget about each other, Luca wouldn't be any the worse for it. But no. Lars had to pop up wherever, come back, what, to ruin his life again? Luca was better without him. The little boy who wanted his whole life to be just like him had grown up now. He was a smarter person than he had been. He tapped the screen.

 

Block larsmooren?

 

He tapped "yes" and let out a breath he didn't even realise he was holding. Whatever Lars wanted from him, he could sort out himself. He didn't need him. Luca hadn't had a brother for fourteen years and he was perfectly happy that way.


	6. Tweetle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little bits of RoBul and SweNed here. Yeehaw. Also I went back and changed Den's first name and Port's surname because I'm indecisive as hell- they're Gunner and Pessoa now, respectively.
> 
> Names  
> Damyan- Bulgaria  
> Andrei- Moldova

No news yet.

Lars didn't know what he expected, really. They both had every reason to hate him. This was a stupid idea. Fuck Gunner. Why had he let him talk him into this? They seemed to be doing fine for themselves these days. Laura had a girlfriend, Luca worked in journalism- the kid had always wanted to be a writer. They were happy. Perfectly okay without him barging back into their lives. And now he was coming back for some reason, dragging the family’s dysfunctional bullshit behind him.

Alin, as usual, was floating over his shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

Lars just scoffed.

“Was that a no?”

“It was a “shut up.” I'm fine.”

Alin probed his cheek with an icy finger. “I'm so sure. You've eaten a grand total of one and a half eggs all day. And it's almost 8 in the evening. And also you're staring at your telephone but you haven't left the Tweetle in an hour.”

“Shut up.” Lars couldn't even muster the energy to tease him about “telephone” or “the Tweetle”. He was hunched over his phone on the sofa with a lukewarm cup of coffee and Laura's DMs open. At a total loss for words, he had sent her a message reading simply “Long time, no see.” He hadn't got the chance to send Luca even that before he blocked him. That fact felt like a stone in his throat, but he couldn't exactly expect better.

“What even happened? Between you and your family, I mean.”

“I just don't talk to them anymore,” he snapped, “Is that a problem?”

“No duh. Cool your jets. I was just wondering why.”

“Mind your own business.”

Alin, drifted over the back of the sofa and laid his head on Lars’s lap, ignoring his grumbles of “you’re freezing my groin with your hair”.

“I had a brother once, you know. Andrei.”

“Cool. I don't care.”

“I loved the kid. I mean, we were siblings, and he was a full 9 years younger than me, so we were prone to argue, but I loved him and I never got to say goodbye. He was 12 the last time I saw him, 19 when I died. Nowadays he must be… what year is it?”

“2018.”

He counted on his fingers for a concerningly long time. “54. Wow. They grow up so fast.”

“Why didn't you see him for so long?”

Alin grinned. “Now I've got your interest.”

“Shut up.”

“So you don't want to hear it?”

Lars gritted his teeth. Smug little bastard. “Proceed.”

“My pleasure. It was ‘73. Mummy and Daddy caught their little Al kissing a boy. Damyan. A nice boy, but, you know, a boy. Weren't so fond of having a homo in the family, so off I went. Andrei took my side. He was 9, he wasn't really old enough to understand, but he missed me, I think. I missed him. Damyan and I were homeless- his parents were, if anything, worse- and it was a whole mess, but once or twice a month we would meet up with Andrei and catch up, which kept me sane, you know? Until my mother’s friend caught us, and that put a stop to that. So I never saw him again.” Alin’s face flickered. Then he smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Anyway. Your turn! What is it your hot friend said? Spill the coffee, baby!”

Lars was silent for a second, studying Alin’s face. Fucking hell. He had him in a box here. He was an asshole if he told him and an asshole if he didn't.

“Look, I'm not proud of what I did, okay?”

Lars tried to ignore how his eyes lit up. There was something really wrong with this guy.

“It's okay!” He tried to reassure him- key word being “try”, “I once saw you boast about finding a wallet someone dropped in the supermarket, rifling through it, and pocketing it when you found out the guy lived out of town! My image of you really can't get that much worse! What did you do?”

He groaned. “Laura and Luca. Have I really never talked about it?”

“Not even heard their names. But I'm noticing a theme." He enunciated each name comically. "Laura, Luca, Lars. Did your parents hate you?”

“Your parents disowned you, shut up.”

“See, saying shit like that is why you only have two friends. Anyway. Go on, go on.”

“She was 14. He was 11. I was 19, halfway through my first year of university, and it was kicking my ass.”

“Partying too hard or working too hard? No really, I really can't tell. You smoke weed but you're the biggest stick up the ass I've ever met.”

“Both-” A coughing fit cut his answer short for a good ten seconds. He took a moment to regain his breath, massaging his throat and reaching for his coffee. “-if you must know.”

“Nice.”

He shot him a look. “Will you let me get this over with?”

“Sorry. Sorry.” He attempted an ill-advised impression of Lars, clenching his jaw and putting on the deepest voice and Dutchest accent he could muster, which wasn't very Dutch at all. “ _ Proceed _ .”

Lars downed the cup, glaring at Alin all the while, cleared his throat, and began. “They were coming to visit me. It was a bit of a drive, they lived in Brugge, I was studying abroad in Copenhagen, but I needed someone to get me back on my feet. I had Gunner- we go far back- but he was a total enabler. So was I. We dragged each other down and I needed an actual responsible adult, which Gunner was not, and barely is even now he's in his 30s. So they were driving up to check on me, all four of them, but they were late. Really late. I was getting annoyed, but then Laura called me. As it turns out, the car had crashed. Some drunk driver. You want to know what I said to her when she called?”

Alin nodded.

“I said fuck all. Nothing. She was sobbing her eyes out. She said there'd been a crash, mum and dad were dead, Luca was hurt, I should come to the hospital, and I just... hung up. She called again a few minutes later. And again. And again. On and off for  _ months _ . I got calls from her, from doctors, from social workers. And I ignored every last one. I don't even know why. I guess I thought if I ignored it I could pretend they were alive or something.”

Alin blinked. “Wow. You're a  _ bastard _ . What the hell’s your damage?”

Lars smiled at him sourly. “Thank you, Alin! That's exactly the response I was hoping for!”

“You really just  _ shut them out _ ?”

“Look, I was already in a bad state. What was I going to be able to do?” Why was he defending himself now?

“I don't know, maybe  _ be there _ ? The  _ barest _ minimum?”

“Yeah, I know,” Lars growled, “I knew that before I said it. Will you just shut up and let me finish?”

“There's  _ more _ ?”

Lars sighed. “I know, I know. Just listen.”

“I’m all ears, baby.”

“I dealt with what happened to our parents badly. Drink, drugs, smoking, sleeping around, overworking, underworking, overeating, undereating, ignoring my siblings, of course. And meanwhile, Luca’s twelfth birthday happened. Without a word from me, obviously. And, I don't know, maybe that was the last straw for him. Maybe he just happened to realise calling wasn't working. Does it really matter? Whatever reason, he ran away from his foster home or wherever he was. He saved up his allowance to take a train all the way to Denmark. Alone. He didn't even tell Laura. Worked it all out on his own. Smart fucking kid. He got all the way to my dorm to find me.” Lars sounded almost proud. “And he succeeded. You know what I'm like after I've had a lot to drink, don't you? I don't mean a lot like last night. I mean a  _ lot _ .”

Alin nodded slowly, crossing his legs and bobbing up and down a few feet above the coffee table. Was he just incapable of sitting still?  “Mm. Angry.”

“Yeah. Well, that's the kind of drunk I was when Luca arrived at my door that night. Angry. At… who knows? My parents? Me? Most likely me. But, you know, I wasn't thinking right. I was thinking about as far from right as you can. And I took it out on him. I yelled at him for… well, for nothing, I presume. I don't even remember what about. And then I sent him off on his way. A twelve-year-old kid. In a country he'd been to maybe three or four times in his life, in a language he knew maybe three words of, at night. So who knows what could've happened to him? Maybe something  _ did _ . I wouldn't know.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Anyway. The calls stopped after that.”

Alin raised his eyebrows. “No,  _ really? _ That's _wild_. Don't know why they'd  _ ever _ do that.”

“Sarcasm isn't a good look on you.”

“And child abuse isn't a good look on  _ anyone _ , Lars.”

“It wasn't-” Lars bit back his defence. He wasn't in a position to defend himself. “Will you let me finish?”

“Oh my god, please tell me your evil peaked there.”

“It did, promise. I mean, if there was one good thing that came of that, it was that Gunner finally stopped passing off my stupid coping mechanisms as just good old hard-partying Lars and noticed it was actually, you know, bad. I was so used to him being my enabler, but he put his foot down. Snapped me right out of it. Got me on the right track. But it was too late, I'd burnt that bridge beyond repair. I mean, I wanted them back so badly, but what was I supposed to say? There's no coming back from what I did.”

Alin nodded slowly. A silence settled between them as he gathered his words. “Listen. If there's one thing I regret? It's that I never said goodbye to Andrei. These days you can track anyone down, but I couldn't talk to him while he was living with our parents and if he moved out at some point I didn't know where. He doesn't even know I'm dead, not for certain. It hurts to think I left him wondering. Take it from me, Larsy, you don't want to leave them wondering. You're doing the right thing. For once in your bastard life.”

Lars smiled despite himself. “That was very encouraging before you said “for once in your bastard life”. Or actually, "Larsy". You lost me at "Larsy".”

“Thank you,” he beamed, “I was aiming for “supportive, but still horrified by your life choices”. How’d I do?”

“Splendid. Thank you.”

“That said, what the fuck, dude?”

Lars sighed. “I know. I know.”

Alin laughed at him. “God, you're a right monster, aren't you?”

“Thanks,” he replied, because he wasn't exactly wrong, and what else do you say to that?

He moved again sprawled out above him, leaning his elbow on nothing at all and sticking one leg up into the ceiling. “You've known Gunner a long time then?”

“Yeah, he kind of stuck around, we moved to the same place after we finished studying and started working at the same school. João doesn't talk to his brother either- something about a woman they were both into, I think- we think the guy just attracts people with sibling issues.”

“Is that why you always visit him over Christmas?”

“Oh, yeah, something about us being his brothers or something. Except the first time we did that-  maybe13 years ago now- I hooked up with his actual brother, so mostly I ignore that sentiment.”

“You got it on with your friend’s brother at family Christmas?”

“It was one time. He got married and had two kids since then. Both adopted. One of them died actually, she haunts the school now. The other just finished last year.”

“Yikes.” Lars could appreciate not knowing how to react to being told something like that. Why was such a buzzkill? “Trapped in a school forever? In a school where  _ you _ teach? Poor kid.” Okay, that was just mean. But fair. One time she'd appeared in his classroom, watched him talk for maybe ten seconds, blown a raspberry, and left. Why did he decide teaching was a good career path for him?

“Yes, well, you have to live with me, so don't get cocky.”

Alin laughed his stupid little laugh. “Very true. But really, no insult back? Where’s my favourite asshole?”

“I have to live with you too. Better?”

“Very much, thank you! I'll think of that next time I jack off.”

Lars was a little sick in his mouth. He threw a pen at him, which went right through his face. “You're disgusting.”

“Oh, that too. Even better. I needed that. You spoil me, Larsy.” He wished, not for the first time, that Alin’s short shorts were just a little less short. He could see more than he wanted to, and the way he was sitting didn't help. Wanting to look at literally anything else, he went back to the Twee- why was  _ he _ calling it that now?

A message had popped up from Laura.

He glanced up at Alin, who stopped being horny for ten seconds and rushed to read it over his shoulder.

 

_ Lars, what the fuck? _

 

She had a point. He owed her more than “Long time, no see.” Even he could see that, now he had hindsight on his side.

He looked back up at Alin.

“What do I say?”

He pursed his lips and shrugged. “Last time you asked me that, I told you not to say “Long time, no see” and then you did, sooo…”

“Does this  _ look _ like the time to be petty?” Lars snapped.

Alin laughed and looked at him like he was a particularly stupid toddler. “Apologise, you dipstick.”

 

_ I'm sorry. _

 

“It's not enough.”

“You very seriously endangered a twelve year old,” Alin pointed out, “But your main worry is that your apology’s too weak?”

Lars ignored him.

 

_ I should have called. _

 

Could anything he said really be enough?

The message he got back didn't even acknowledge him. It was just a number- her number. Cold didn't suit Laura. He'd always known her to be this beacon of warmth, but he supposed, if the idea was to make him feel uncomfortable, guilty and slightly terrified, then she was definitely succeeding. She was right again, though- this was a conversation best had verbally. Perfect. Lars was always  _ great _ at verbal.

He called the number, holding his breath.

“Lars?” It occurred to him that he hadn't heard her voice for 14 years. For half of her life. “Is that you?” She sounded so much older- of  _ course  _ she sounded older, she was 28. It was so blatantly clear how she was trying to keep her voice level, but it wavered below the surface.

Alin gestured that he wanted to hear, so Lars turned it onto speaker mode. So he could hear however the hell this conversation was going to go.

What could he say?

What could he ever say to make it right?

“Yeah. It's me.” How was he supposed to go about this? How was he supposed to talk to her after all he'd done? “Hi.”

“Lars. You have some serious explaining to do. Right now.”


	7. Passive Aggression Is Your Best Bet

The night had passed like a dream, bar maybe the fact that Laura had proposed on a toilet. Dinner had been wonderful. Céline was privately very glad she hadn't left when Lars showed up- missing out on that haute cuisine would have been a tragedy. The incident aside, everything had gone by without a hitch. Céline kept seeing her engagement ring out of the corner of her eye, hearing it clink against her glass of wine (the nice stuff- they had a lot to celebrate). Every time, her heart would flutter a little. Afterwards, with the rush of excitement now dwindled to a glow, they walked home under the lights of the city. The sun was starting to set later as February slipped into March, but enough winter was left to leave them walking home in the dark with the chill seeping through her dress.

She shivered, huddling close to her girlfriend- her _fiancée_. “Oh God, it’s freezing.”

Laura’s hands flew to her buttons. “You want my coat?”

“What? No, no, I have my own, dear, you keep-” She didn’t even get to finish her sentence before Laura wrapped it around her shoulders. It was far too big for her, grazing her calves as she walked, but it warmed her up.

“You’re literally from the south of France, I can handle a little cold.”

“Monaco,” she corrected.

“Which is south of France.”

Céline laughed, resting her head against her arm. “You aren’t wrong.”

They walked together like that awhile, arm in arm. Neither said much more. Sometimes, in moments like these, words weren’t needed. She had a beautiful woman on her arm and her coat on her back. The sky at dusk was beautiful- a clear, soft, blue-grey rolling on forever. The golden street lamps, just lighting up, cast gold over Laura, shining through stray hairs and the very surface of her cardigan like a halo. She was glowing. She was an angel.

No, they didn’t need words- Céline could gladly stay in silence with her forever in this one moment.

When they got into their flat, she immediately flopped onto the couch. Laura followed. Their cat looked up from the armchair he was curled up on, looking a little perturbed.

“I love you,” she mumbled, pulling her close and then on top of her. Laura was fairly strong, but she didn’t need to be to pull Céline on top of her. She was 9 inches shorter than her and about half her width.

“I love you too.”

“I’m marrying you,” she whispered, lips brushing the top of her head. “Fucking hell, how did that happen?”

“Something to do with you proposing to me.”

“Yeah, that’ll do it.” She undid Céline’s plait and ran her fingers through it, letting it fall freely.

Céline reached for a hairbrush she had left lying around on the coffee table and passed it to her. “As proposals go…”

“Sorry about the toilet.” She ran it through her hair methodically. Laura’s own hair was too short to ever need much brushing, but she loved brushing Céline’s.

“I’d marry you if you proposed to me in Calais, dear. And the restaurant was just…”

“Exquisite.”

“I’m glad we went.”

“Me too. I’m glad today happened.” She sighed blissfully. “I’m marrying you, Luca’s almost definitely met his future girlfriend, Lars is…” And just like that, the hairbrush stopped dead in its tracks. Fucking hell. So much for a romantic evening “I should talk to him.”

Céline looked up from the chest her face was so comfortably buried in. “You sure you want to?”

“He’s my brother.“

She made a face. “I know, but just… think it through. Are you ready to forgive him? I mean, after what he did to Luca…”

“I didn’t say I’d forgive him. I just... “

Her face softened. She understood. “You miss him?”

Laura nodded. “Is that wrong? He could have died and I'm just thinking about what _I_ want.”

“It’s your choice entirely. Just… be smart.”

She got her phone out of her bag. “We’ll see how it plays out. I’ve got you to make sure I’m not an idiot about this.”

“I’ve got your back,” she promised, “Whether you talk to him or not. Don't think about right and wrong or what Luca would do, only consider what you want. I mean, if there ever was a time for you to be selfish, this is it.”

Laura showed Céline the message he’d sent, presumably while they were eating. _Long time, no see._

She blinked at the screen. “ Tear him apart.”

“Jesus Christ, he hasn't changed. What do I even say to that?”

Céline held out her hand and made a beckoning motion. Laura handed her the phone- she trusted her without question. Céline typed up a succinct enough response.

 

_Lars, what the fuck?_

 

She held up the phone for her. “How’s that?”

“Sums it up pretty well. Send it.”

His reply was immediate and exactly what she’d expected.

 

_I’m sorry._

_I should have called._

 

Céline sniffed dismissively. “Yeah, no shit, Lars.”

“Again, what do I say?” Laura groaned and rested her head on the back of the sofa.

“Passive aggression is your best bet.”

“Céline, passive aggression is your default.”

“Because it works.”

“Okay, well, you’re good at being passive aggressive. Tell me what to say.”

She nibbled her lip. “Give him your number. This isn’t a conversation for Twitter, and it’s harder to lie vocally. But don’t be nice about it. Not _mean,_ just don’t say anything other than the number. Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

“How do I get your help if we’re talking?”

She smiled reassuringly. “You won’t need it. You can deal with him. I mean, if you lose your temper, or you cry, or anything, really, it’s pretty much warranted. Like I said. Be selfish.”

Laura nodded. “Be selfish. Thanks.” She stroked her hair, just for the comfort, and with the other hand typed in her number.

“Isn’t this a little cold?”

“Isn’t chucking a little kid out at night in Denmark a little cold?”

Laura nodded and sent it. “Fair point.”

Céline could hear her heartbeat. The poor woman was nervous at the best of times. To settle her nerves, she took her hand and squeezed it. “It’s okay. You’ve got this. Kick his ass, dear.”

Her ringtone went off.

“I’ve got this,” she echoed, “I can do it.”

She switched her phone onto speaker and answered, trying to keep her voice level. Céline’s hand was like an anchor.

“Lars? Is that you?”

He took a second to speak. “Yeah. It’s me. Hi.”

She barely recognised his voice. He’d evidently moved abroad a long time ago- even speaking Dutch, his accent was tinged with English, though it wasn’t quite one or the other. It was as deep as she remembered and even more gravelly. She guessed he’d never quit smoking.

“Lars.” _Lars_ , she was talking to _Lars_ , her brother, if she could call him that after what he did, _Lars_. “You have some serious explaining to do. Right now.”

Céline smiled encouragingly. If she had it her way, Laura knew she’d have killed him over the phone line by now.

“I’m sorry.” He stopped at that, but she waited for him to finish. No way was he getting away with just that. “After mam and pa… talking to you meant dealing with it, and I wasn’t ready to deal with it until it was too late.”

“ _Too late?!_ ” She unconsciously squeezed Céline’s hand just a little too tight. “What do you mean, too late? You could have called at any time!”

He was silent.

“What, was it too embarrassing for you?” She half-laughed. “You didn’t want to face up to your mistakes like an adult? Is that it?”

Céline didn’t take her eyes off her. “Fuck him up,” she whispered.

“When was it? When _were_ you ready to deal with it?”

He took a long moment to reply. His voice was soft. “I guess… 2005? A year or so after what happened with Luca?”

“2005! Great! Let’s see, what was I doing in the meantime? Oh yeah! I was 15, still not exactly relishing the orphan life, dealing with the beginnings of a _lovely_ anxiety disorder, and trying to take as much care of Luca as I could on the weekends I was allowed to visit him in a foster home miles away from my own, all without the help of the one other immediate family member I had left. But yeah. Sorry about your pride, Lars. Must have been really hard getting embarrassed about a problem you specifically caused.”

“I’m sorry. Look, forget this ever happened, I just… I don’t know why I did this. My friend-”

“Not a fucking chance,” she snapped, “No.”

He seemed almost surprised. “What?”

“You aren’t going anywhere. Not again. Tell me, Lars, are you serious about coming back? Is this just you letting me know you’re alive or are you here to stay?”

He took a long moment to reply, yet again. “I’m here to stay. For the rest of my life.”

“Good. Because if you plan on staying, then stay, but if you plan on pulling some shit like that again then hang up right now.”

“I’m not going anywhere. Seriously. I promise.”

“I’m not losing you again. I missed you, Lars.”

They were all silent for a long moment, all three of them. She could hear them both breathing, one over the phone, one on her chest. His breath sounded a little laboured. Like he was pushing it out manually.

“Why now, Lars? After all that time?”

Either he sighed, or his breathing was just like that. “Lung cancer. I have a year. Thought I ought to… well, I should have done this a long time ago.”

“No fucking shit.” She exchanged a look with Céline. “Jesus, though. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well, it was bound to happen eventually. That’s what you get for smoking from the age of 14, I guess.”

She almost laughed. “I feel like I should dispute that and say it’s not your fault or something, but…”

“But it is?”

“Kind of.”

They both laughed, actually laughed despite it all. He’d never laughed much, even before what happened. She had missed it. But then she heard the phone fall on the floor, and then what was either coughing or a machine gun, off in the distance. He picked it back up after a few seconds.

“Sorry. Coughing fit. Dropped my phone.”

“It’s alright.”

She heard him gulping down a glass of water, then the distant sound of it being put back down on the table. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. She settled on changing the subject.

“Remember when Luca found weed in your room?”

“You knew about that? He made me pay him 10 euros to keep quiet about it!”

“Not at the time, but he told me about it later.”

“Little snitch.”

Laura picked the hairbrush back up and went back to running it through Céline’s hair. “I won’t call the cops.”

“Is… how is Luca? How are you, for that matter?”

“Luca’s fine. He’s writing for a fashion magazine, he really likes it. I run a cafe with a friend of mine. I’m also engaged as of…” She checked the clock on their wall. “Almost two hours ago.”

“Oh, really? Wow. Congratulations.”

She brushed Céline’s hair behind her ear, smiling at her lovingly. God, she was beautiful. “You caught us at a terrible time. I freaked out and ended up proposing to her on a toilet.”

“Sorry.” Lars seemed to be saying that a lot. It wasn’t like it was unwarranted.

“Meh. It’s a story to tell. Anyway, would it really be an encounter with you if it didn’t ruin something?”

“I guess not. What’s she like?”

“Her name’s Céline.” She was smiling up at her, head tilted with her cheek resting on her chest. Her glasses were stabbing Laura a little bit, but she didn’t mind. “She’s from Monaco. She likes macarons and card games and playing the piano and she’s so tiny. I mean _tiny_ , like, I can carry her _easily_.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Céline murmured, trying not to laugh.

“But yeah, she’s amazing. What about you?”

“Not seeing anyone. I’m a teacher.”

“Was that an addition or an explanation?”

“You implying teachers aren’t inherently sexy?”

She snorted. “Your words, not mine.”

“I’m just not seeing anyone currently. Not because I’m a teacher.”

“Whatever you say. Look, I should probably go. Things to do, fiancées to cuddle.”

“Good call, I’m exhausted.”

Laura smiled. “Text you in the morning. Bye, Lars.”

“Bye- wait, one last thing."

"Hm?"

"Could you tell Luca I said I'm sorry?"

Laura looked at Céline. Céline just rolled her eyes.

"I'll tell him. Bye, Lars."

She hung up and took a second to process what had just happened. He was back. He was _back_.

She squealed and hugged Céline tight to her chest, a grin lighting up her face. “ _HE’S BACK!”_


	8. Middle Aged Assholes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! This chapter sure was fun to write for something I thought of adding to the story at the last fuckign minute. Planning's for losers.  
> Little warning for violence and what could definitely be construed as self-harm here.

After the call, a familiar feeling settled over Lars. He put down the phone gently, in shaky silence, and looked up at Alin. Something shone in his weird, red eyes. Something like pride. Lars studied his face. It pissed him off immeasurably, even more than usual. Not Alin's fault, even if he wanted it to be. It was the smile, the “well done” on the tip of his tongue. Guilt rose up in his chest. He hadn't earned a “well done”. He hadn't earned Alin’s pride. Before he could say a word, Lars stormed right through him, grabbed his coat, and left the house, leaving Alin alone in silent confusion in his empty living room.

He got into his car and drove away. He didn't know where to at first, but slowly, the dumbest of ideas dawned on him. He steered through city streets until he found the perfect place, then pulled up and stepped inside. Old habits die hard. An hour passed there and he could have been 19 again. It was just like old times: Lars drinking more than he should in a shitty bar that smelt like cigarette smoke and depression, full of middle aged assholes. The only differences were that he was miles away from Copenhagen, and that now Lars _was_ one of the middle aged assholes- though, technically speaking, he always had been, he just hadn't known it. He’d hit the middle of his life at 17 and he was almost as old as he would ever be now, a little under two months before his 34th birthday. Ah, well. He deserved it.

It had been years since he’d done this. It was his own little self-destructive tradition once upon a time. He’d done it almost weekly. He’d go to some bar out of town, somewhere he wouldn’t bump into anyone from class. He would drink far more than he should have. But the binge drinking was far from the worst of it.

There was a man across the room he had his eyes on, all muscles and tattoos and haircut where you’d struggle to know where to stop when washing your face. He looked mean and drunk enough. Like the kind of guy who had something to prove to his mates- each of them almost as skinhead-y and angry. He’d do.

Lars put down his beer. He was hammered, sadder than he had any right to be, and about to do something really, really stupid. There was no need for a preamble. He wasn’t looking for an argument. He just needed a fight. He stepped up to him, looming just above his level. He was taller, but he already knew the odds were stacked against him- he wasn’t as strong as he used to be. That was fine. He didn’t plan on winning anyway.

“What do you want, mate?”

Lars landed a swift blow to his jaw. Around him, the man’s friends stepped back in confused shock. The man just stood there, rubbing his cheek for a moment.

“The _fuck_ did you do that for, asshole?”

He couldn’t explain his answer to the man, of course, so instead he just punched him in the stomach. When the man fought back, Lars didn’t. He pushed him, just barely hit him, if only to provoke a reaction, but he let the man totally lay into him, pound him to a pulp. He couldn’t breathe. There was yelling and rushing blood in his ears. He could taste it in his mouth, that old friend, that metallic kick, dribbling in crimson from his nose to his lips to his tongue. Pain shot through him, through his chest (but it was always there in his chest, a stab at every careless movement), through his stomach, his jaw, his throat, his groin, fists and knees and feet landing wherever the man’s drunken, uncoordinated muscles could land them. Lars fell onto the ground, hit the floor hard. Hardened work boots clobbered his ribs, blunt and forceful, over and over, more than one pair too, and Lars didn't even try to get up. He took the beating he'd earned until he felt arms loop under his. The blows stopped landing. He let himself be dragged away by… someone. A bartender, or police, maybe. Things felt blurry- maybe the drink, maybe a concussion. He heard himself grumble, swear, felt himself bat at whoever was holding him ineffectually, and then he blacked out.

Yep. Just like old times. 

* * *

 

He woke up with his second hangover in as many mornings. The first thought that came to mind was that the holding cells in Denmark were a hell of a lot nicer than the English ones. It’s like they weren’t even trying here. He rested his head on a bright blue pillow made of exactly the wrong material for a pillow to be made of and closed his eyes. His head hurt, but so did a lot of other things. The night before was blurry, but it didn’t take a genius to guess what he’d done. Experimentally, he poked his ribs. The pain made him wince. Either he'd got into a fight or a really kinky one night stand- you know, like you do in police custody.

Eventually, a straight-faced policewoman came in to issue him with the drunk and disorderly fine he'd earned himself. The fine would have bothered him even three days ago, but he supposed he wouldn't need his money much longer. That wasn’t a thought he’d ever seen himself having. 

In the old days, he would have called Gunner to pick him up, but he just got the bus. He had to be at work anyway. Lars had gone this far without missing a day- he supposed it wouldn’t kill him to call the head and give himself another day off, especially since he was retiring. He couldn’t teach with a black eye and a hangover anyway.

When he got home, Alin was waiting, sitting on the ceiling right by the door so that Lars was greeted by a moment of weird, translucent blindness and brain freeze, only to realise that their heads were inside each other and that he was looking right at Alin’s brain. He quickly stepped aside, deciding he wasn’t a fan of that view at all, and Alin backflipped down in front of him, prompting Lars to wonder how long he’d spent practising that. Probably longer than he’d been alive.

Alin crossed his arms indignantly. “Hey. What the fuck, dude?”

The question threw him. All his hungover, headache-y, everything-ache-y brain could come up with was “Huh?”

“You just booked all of a sudden! Are you bugging?” If he were in a better state, Lars would have made some snide comment on his weird 80s slang.

“Keep it down.”

Alin’s eyes softened when he registered the state he was in, as did his voice. “You look terrible.”

“Got beaten up. Probably.”

“How bad?”

He lifted up his shirt to show him the bruises he mostly just assumed he had, but correctly, of course. Deep purple footprints decorated his torso. He heard Alin swear under his breath.

“I've had worse,” he was quick to add, “Not my first fight. You should’ve seen the other guy.”

The other guy was fine, of course, and most of the fights he'd been in were just as deliberately self-destructive as this one. Alin didn't have to know that. It didn't matter anyway- his posturing did nothing to stop him from fussing.

“Do you have any arnica ointment? Or parsley?”

He made a face. “Parsley?”

“Bandage parsley to it. Heals it right up. But arnica’s good too. Or frankincense oil. Or pineapples.”

“You know full well I have none of those things on hand.”

Alin rolled his eyes. “Fine, just ice and painkillers. And then take a warm bath. And rest.”

Lars scowled at him, but took a Tylenol and got the frozen peas out of the freezer anyway. “How do you know so much about bruises?”

Alin had to think for a second. “There was a… a footballer? He was… you know, living here. A while ago. Had a lot of his own home remedies. For sports injuries. From doing sports.” He was a terrible liar, but Lars didn't push it. If Alin was solid enough, he would beat him up too.

“Well, thanks, I guess.” Holding the peas to his ribs under his armpit, he emptied an ice cube tray into a Ziploc bag and wrapped it in a tea towel. He held it against his blacker eye.

“Happy to help. What were you fighting over anyway?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Ah, yes, “doesn’t matter”. The two words least likely to ever pique my interest.”

He closed the freezer and hobbled up the stairs. “Leave it.”

“C’mon. I won’t tell,” he teased, disappearing from behind him and reappearing at the top of the stairs, “What happened? Did you hit on them? Did you hit on their boyfriend? Did they insult your stupid hair?”

“Stop guessing.”

Alin, predictably, ignored him. “Were they like that guy in _Trainspotting_ who just starts fights for the hell of it? Are _you_ like that guy in _Trainspotting_ who starts fights for the hell of it?”

Lars sat at the edge of the bath and turned the tap on. “You've seen _Trainspotting?_ ”

“Aha! So you started it for the hell of it!”

“That's a leap, even for you.”

“But-” Alin wagged a bony finger at him. “-it definitely had something to do with Laura.”

“No it didn’t,” he scoffed, getting up and out of the bathroom to sit in his room and wait until the bath was full, “The drink, sure, that was because of her, but the fight was- was-”

“Hm?”

“Fuck off, Alin.”

“Aw, c’mon! I just want to know!”

“I said fuck off!” he snapped, slamming his ice pack down on the bed. Alin flinched. “Shut up, for once! Take a hint! I don’t have to tell you every little bit of my life just because-” Another of his coughing fits cut him off. He collapsed onto his side. Every cough burnt his throat and chest, and his ribs weren’t doing him any favours. He groaned. “Fucking lungs.” Despite his yelling, Alin rubbed his chest. The cold helped a little, but didn’t wipe the scowl from Lars’s face.

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re just so annoying. And invasive,” he continued, the moment he had the breath to, “I mean, I get you’re _eccentric_ and _weird_ , and that’s your whole thing, and I get you think you can know whatever about me because you’ve been watching me sit around for 10 years, but that doesn’t excuse you from being a little pest. This is my house! I mean, god, I didn’t _ask_ to live with you!”

Alin stopped rubbing and dropped his hand. He didn’t speak for a long moment. “Alright. Sure. Whatever. I’ll be under the stairs if you want me.”

Alin sank down into the ground, presumably for drama’s sake, seeing as his room wasn’t anywhere near the stairs, leaving Lars alone with two ice packs and a lot of unnecessary anger that definitely wasn't covering even a shred of guilt. Who did Alin think he was?

Eventually, he got up and got into the bath, soaking his beaten-up body and cleaning day-old gel out of his hair. He’d started spiking it up in the midst of an ill-advised punk phase in his teens and never really left the habit behind. He’d always thought his hair looked a little too childish flopping down onto his forehead, and now at least it looked more neat than edgy. At least he’d stopped dyeing it.

He put his head under the water, eyes open to a squint, and thought again about Laura. Engaged now. 28 years old. That soft-looking woman, the spitting image of their mother, but with the same eyes as him and Luca and their dad, smiling from photos, some with friends or her fiancée. He’d missed out on so much.

Was that call all it had taken for her to let him back into her life? After all he’d done? A phone call, a slap on the wrist, and that was it? She’d always been too nice for her own good. He remembered when she was 12, in her first year of high school. He remembered the girl from the year above her who kept taking her stuff, and how Laura always gave it to her almost willingly. He’d had to stick up for her. He had no problem intimidating the kid- he was a tall, gangly 17-year-old with a leather jacket and a face that defaulted to glowering and she was a 13-year-old dressed like the film _Mean Girls_ had vomited on her. Even then, Laura had defended her- she was only being nice, she told him, only trying to make friends. She’d always been too generous for her own good.

But now he was doing the same thing, walking all over her. Why had he even called?

He came up for air, stepped out of the bath, wrapped a towel around his waist and went back to his room to change into some other clothes that had less blood and beer on them. Alin was right, the bath and the ice and the Tylenol had helped a little. Not that he’d admit that to Alin. In fact, to make sure he wouldn’t think he was taking his medical advice, he got some chores done instead of resting- laundry, washing up, making lunch that was technically breakfast. Something felt off as he did, but he couldn’t quite place it. It was too quiet. Then he remembered Alin was still sulking in the cupboard under the stairs instead of annoying him. Fuck’s sake.

He put down his sandwich and knocked on the wall.

“Al?” _Al?_ Since when did he call him Al? What was he doing? “In?” No! That gap sounded awkward! Why was he even talking to him?

“What?”

“Can you come out?”

He slid out of the wall. “Hey. Whazzup?”

Lars hadn’t planned this far. What was he meant to say?

“Why are you sulking?” So, not the best start. 

“You know why."

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine, I get it. It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to anyone. I get ahead of myself. I’m sorry too. If I'm invading, just say so. I'll try to... you know. Rein it in a little.”

"I will."

They settled into silence for a moment. Putting pride aside, it was Lars who broke it.

“That fight…”

He sat down and Alin perked up immediately. “Hm?”

He ran fingers through his hair. “After what happened with Luca, I used to do this thing where I’d get drunk, start a brawl, and then just… let them beat me up, I guess.”

“Sooo, like a dominatrix, but, like, free.”

Lars gave him a withering look and he shut up.

“I don’t know why. I was a kid. I was fucking stupid and I figured I deserved a good beating.”

Alin snorted. “Been there.”

“Will you stop being kinky?”

“Sorry.” He folded his hands in his lap and listened.

“Anyway. That call, and Luca blocking me, and… I don’t know. Just felt natural to fall back into old habits.”

“The call went well, though!”

Lars shrugged. “I guess. But I felt like I didn’t deserve it, or she didn’t deserve it. Or, y’know, whatever.”

Alin nibbled his lip, getting up and floating around the room. “You sure do torture yourself, don’t you?”

“So what?”

“So stop,” he told him, as if it was obvious, “You were a shitty person. You still aren’t great.”

“Thanks.”

“Listen. You don’t _have_ to be,” he continued, “I mean, it’s all well and good beating yourself up over things that happened 14 years ago, but moping won’t change it. “

Lars raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, nothing will, but thanks for the reminder.”

“God, do you ever listen? Look, maybe you can’t fix it, but you can carry on telling yourself what an asshole you are and carry on _being_ an asshole while you’re at it, or you can change. You’re stuck in the past, man. You’ve got a year to live. Don’t waste it trying to change things you can't. Be good. Make the world better while you still can. Makes a change from getting yourself beaten up at the first sign of trouble, doesn't it?”

Lars took a bite out of his sandwich, mostly for the sake of giving himself an excuse not to speak for a moment. He hated admitting people were right. Alin all the more. Eventually, he swallowed and put it down.

“I mean… I guess. Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fight scenes are fun actually. I made a whole playlist specifically for writing that part. It has Bohemian Rhapsody on it.  
> Also Trainspotting is a good ass film. Nothing quite like seeing Obi-Wan Kenobi and Elementary Sherlock Holmes off their asses on heroin (okay, so technically I haven't even seen the Star Wars prequels, but still).


	9. Go Give A Blowjob To An Exhaust Pipe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Names:  
> Sonja- Nyo Ladonia  
> Mr Farouk- Egypt  
> Mr Sepetys- Lithuania

A week later, at lunch time, Lars had sorted out his retirement with the head- dying at least had that going for it. He hoped to enjoy a quiet last day before a quiet retirement, but in hoping for that, he had forgotten that he had friends- Gunner to dash his hopes of a quiet last day, and Alin back home to dash his hopes of a quiet retirement. Wonderful.

A grown man standing on a table in the staff room of a secondary school would be a lot weirder a sight if the rest of the staff weren’t already acquainted with Gunner. It was times like this that Lars wondered how exactly he had gone about befriending the biggest manchild at his uni. And at this school. And probably just in general.

“Alright guys! Announcement!” Some teachers looked. Others glanced up, saw it was Gunner, and tried to avoid his gaze. Unfortunately for them, Gunner noticed and pointed straight at them. “That means _you_ , Mr Farouk. And don't think I don't see you hiding, Mr Sepetys.”

They very reluctantly looked back up, the latter shuffling out from behind a filing cabinet.

“Thank you! Alright, as you might know, young and sprightly as he is-”

“Go give a blowjob to an exhaust pipe, Gunner.”

“-young, sprightly and _descriptive._ A whole triple threat! Did you ever consider teaching English?”

Lars groaned. “Get to the point, man.”

“Right, right. He's retiring today, we’re getting drinks this evening. Who wants in?”

Lars found himself looking over at Mr Sepetys- Tomas to anyone who wasn't a student or a giant child who insisted on calling his coworkers by their surnames. Maybe he should try to hide as well. But no, everyone's eyes were already on him.

“Yes, yes, I can retire because I’m dying while you have to stay in this shithole, it's tragically unfair, blah blah blah.” He shot Gunner a look. “I never agreed to that.”

The room went quiet. “You’re dying?”

“Elise, if you start crying, I will not be held responsible for what I do.”

João swatted at him with a history textbook. “Lars!”

“Ow! Alright, alright, yes, I'm dying, terminal lung cancer, I have a year, be as emotional about it as you want. But we aren’t celebrating shit, and none of you start acting like we were best friends. I don't like any of you except João and Gunner.”

Gunner raised an eyebrow. “We're flattered.”

“Yeah, whatever. Jury's still out on you.”

Gunner just laughed and sat down on the edge of the table, which wasn't meant to support an adult man, even if he was an English teacher. “You sure you don't want to do something? Have a little retirement thing?”

“If I wanted to celebrate it, I would have organised a celebration myself.”

“Come on, Lars,” João whined, “It would be fun!”

“I don't do parties.”

“Not a party, just a get-together.”

“That's a party.”

João highlighted something on his lesson plan. “No, it's a get-together.”

“Distinction without a difference. Point is, no get-together either. Anyway, this isn't exactly the kind of retirement you celebrate.”

Apparently, going by the nervous silence they fell into, they hadn't thought of that. Gunner nibbled his lip. “Okay.”

“And don't shoot me those fucking puppy eyes.”

“I wasn't!”

“If you say so. Look, if you want to come over afterwards, have a drink and a smoke and make some actual plan for that dumb road trip, fine. Let's do it. Just us, though. We aren’t making this a big thing.” He got up and lifted his bag onto his shoulder. “Alright, I'm getting to class. See you later.”

“No smoking!” Gunner called after him.

“What's it gonna do?” Lars replied from the doorway, “Give me cancer?”

As he disappeared, João and Gunner exchanged a look. João watched through the window as he shouted himself into a coughing fit at some barely-misbehaving kid. “Poor man.”

“Hope he's alright.”

“Me too. But somehow, darling, I doubt it.”

 

* * *

 

Lars was still out of breath from the walk upstairs by the time his Year 10s started spilling in. He was perched on his desk, sipping from a bottle of water.

“Alright, kids.” He slammed down his bottle with witheringly sarcastic enthusiasm. “Who wants to do some _work_?”

He was met with a sea of unimpressed faces. What even was the point of 14 and 15 year olds?

“I'm asking. Seriously. Show of hands. It's second to last lesson on a Friday. We're all tired from the week, but the end of the day still isn't close enough for that one last bit of energy. You have a choice here. Who wants to work?”

Oscar put his hand up tentatively.

“Wonderful. Well, Oscar, aside from being obliged to call you a huge fucking nerd-” A teacher swearing? The kids loved this. “-I applaud your dedication. And if you want to do some revision, I won't stop you. But today's my last day, so I can do what I want, so I'm putting on a film.”

Amid the excited chattering, Oscar put his hand up.

“Yes?”

“Where are you going, sir?”

“Do I look like a Religious Studies teacher to you, Oscar?” At their apparent confusion, he clarified, “I'm retiring.”

“Aren't you a bit young for that, sir?” Adriana piped up.

“Well, I have terminal lung cancer, and I’ll be dead in about a year, so, again, I’m allowed to do basically whatever I want.”

They all went silent. Well, that was a first.

“Yeah, don't smoke, kids. Now, films. I brought three films.” He held up three DVDs. All of them were bad, but he’d found them lying around at the bottom of his bookshelf and apparently people liked them. “Let's vote.”

After way less argument than there would have been if he hadn't dropped the big news on them, Oscar and everyone else shut up and picked a film. Ignoring the looks some of them shot his way- pity, or sometimes curiosity, which was at least refreshing- he sat back in his chair and got out his phone. He was texting regularly with Laura by now- after catching her up on the last 14 years depressingly quickly, they were checking up on each other almost daily. She liked sending him photos of things she'd baked with captions usually along the lines of “Be jealous :P” even though she wasn't even the one eating them and telling him about conversations she'd overheard in her cafe. Above all she liked referring to Céline as “my fiancée”. He supposed he understood why, but it seemed cheesy to him. For the most part, he didn't have much to talk about- work wasn't exactly exciting (or maybe he was desensitised to the wild shit kids did- who’s to say?) and he couldn't exactly talk about Alin, who made everything else seem even duller than it was by comparison- so he contented himself listening to her and occasionally finding something iconoclastic to say about various TV shows, which Laura always called him a cynical bastard for, but sometimes admitted that Céline agreed with him.

As for Céline, he wasn't quite sure how to feel about her. She seemed, at least, to make Laura happy, and apparently they had a lot in common, but he didn't like when Laura talked about her. He didn't think it was anything personal, per se- just the same bitterness as when he saw couples making out on the bus, or when João gushed about his latest romantic escapade in graphic but admittedly poetic detail, or when Berwald arrived at Christmas with his husband at his side, topped off with the reminder of all he'd missed. He liked her, just not the shortcomings in him she highlighted. Or maybe he was just more protective than he had any right to be. Or maybe it was something to do with how Laura had done nothing to hide that she approved of him about as much as Luca did. Fair enough.

He opened their texts. Her last message read _Enjoy your last day!!!!!!_ and was followed by an unnecessary amount of emojis. He still envied her enthusiasm as much as he ever had. The more things changed, it seemed, the more they stayed the same.

 _Nearly 2 hrs left,_ he told her, _I’m_ _letting kids watch a film bc i can_

She got back immediately.

 

_You're still fighting the man even though you're the man now I see! Lol_

_What did you tell them?_

 

_That I'm retiring because I'm dying what do you think_

_Also bring up the fact that I ever called my teacher ‘the man’ again I dare you_

 

_Lars no they're babies!_

_Also you called the whole school staff the man lol_

_You called the dinner lady the man you absolute punk_

 

_They're 14/15 a little death never hurt anyone_

_Also fuck you_

 

_It literally hurts a lot of people_

 

_No I’m the expert and I say it doesn't_

 

She never brought up that Lars was dying. He seemed to be the only person willing to talk about it at all, but he'd never liked to tiptoe around a subject. He suspected she'd rather pretend everything was fine. Maybe he should try to play along. He probably owed it to her.

 

_Have you met a lot of dead people?_

 

_Ur mother_

_I’m allowed to say that she was my mother too_

_Suddenly I don't want to have this conversation I’m sorry bye_

 

He turned his phone off before he could get a reply from her, which left him with the choice between _Titanic_ or his own thoughts. He glanced at the whiteboard for maybe ten seconds and felt his brain cells deplete just looking at it. Never mind. He wouldn't need them much longer anyway.

He saw Morgan materialise on Jacob’s desk, watching the film with her legs crossed, absentmindedly playing with her hair. She flashed Lars a bright grin. In the moment it took for him to turn to her and slightly smile back, she had already turned back to the film. He couldn’t focus on it. Not that it was much worth keeping his mind on in the first place. It drifted, by way of Morgan, to Berwald.

They were never friends as such, they only ever talked at Christmas, but he liked him. He remembered when they first met- Lars had felt so weird and invasive at this family gathering Gunner had dragged him to that he and everyone else knew he didn't deserve to be at, but Berwald, an actual part of the family, actually looked almost as uncomfortable. For completely different reasons, of course- he just wasn't a people person- but he and Lars had found some vague common ground in that neither of them wanted to be there. They'd hit it off well, but they only ever actually met once a year. A temporary friend, he supposed. They'd slept together the first time, just a stupid drunk thing, a little fun, but then he had come with a boyfriend in tow, then a husband, then their two adopted girls, Morgan and Sonja. Then just Sonja.

Everything felt quieter, that first Christmas without Morgan. One less set of presents under the tree. One less plate at the table. One less voice yelling over the others as they played Mariokart on Gunner's Wii. Berwald, Tino and Sonja went home earlier than planned. Tino didn't bother trying to hide that he'd been crying, Sonja was sullen and silent, and Berwald just stared at his shoes blankly.

The Christmas after was better. Like the audience on the other side of the screen, Lars watched the family knit itself back together, year by year, but Berwald, Tino and Sonja were never quite the same. Tino still cried in the bathroom when he thought nobody could hear, Sonja still spoke in monosyllables, and Berwald’s blank eyes still stared downwards, not blinking quite as much they should have. Lars stayed out of it. Family business was family business- he was only there in the first place because Gunner wanted him to be.

He heard Morgan laugh at something in the film that wasn’t funny but was probably meant to be. Or maybe not. He wasn’t paying attention. She threw her head back and rose a few inches off the table, snorting. Alin did that too, laughed so hard he forgot to pretend to be solid, slipped through tables, floated up so his head grazed through the ceiling.

His mind drifted further, to their conversation last week, about changing, being better. He had begrudgingly accepted his point, but he still didn't know if he planned to actually do anything. Wasn't it too late for him? Was it worth it? He debated the pros and cons in his head. He could do the right thing, or he could do the easy thing, and in the process avoid letting Alin be smug about it. Technically speaking, that was more cons than pros.

He looked at Morgan again and thought about Christmas. He thought about Berwald that first time, sat on the arm of the sofa with a glass of wine, looking like he'd like to be somewhere else, trying not to seem like he was sizing him up. The third time, with his boyfriend on his arm, the fourth, engaged to him. The fifth time, married with two little girls (eight years old, quiet and ginger, ten years old, brash and blonde). The eighth, with just one little girl, eleven, now far beyond quiet. He replayed the highlights from that eighth Christmas in his head, from his rolling chair in his classroom with the dodgy wheel to the couch at Gunner’s with worn-out springs, where he'd watched it all happen and tried not to think about how it had been him on playground duty that day, it had been him who got her to the nurse just a little too late.

He made his choice. Last day- it was now or never. Nobody in the class noticed as he opened up his laptop and caught Morgan's eye, motioning as subtly as possible for her to come over. He opened up a Word document with her looming just above his shoulder.

 _Do you want to talk to your dads?_  he typed.

She blinked. “What? Yeah. Obviously.”

_What if I helped you write them a letter?_

She looked between him and the screen, her face lighting up. She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Yes! Oh shit, mate, you'd _do_ that?”

He looked up at her witheringly. _No, Morgan, I offered to do this with no intention of following through whatsoever._

“Piss off,” she cackled, “How do you make a full stop look sarcastic anyway?”

_Language._

“I'm almost, like, twenty, I can say whatever.”

_You are thirteen years old._

“Fuck you anyway.”

He highlighted where he'd typed “Language” and bolded it. She burst out laughing.

“You're such a teacher! Alright, alright, bloody hell, the letter! I’m gonna talk to my dads!" She made some weird squeaking noise, grinning. It made Lars smile just a little.

_You dictate, I type._

“Okay! Okay, okay. Can I do one for each of them?”

_Whatever you want._

“Okay. First one.” She nibbled her lip, trying to decide. “ _Alright, Sonja?_ ”

He gave her a look.

“You said whatever I want!” she protested, “Why does it have to be all proper fancy letter stuff?”

He rolled his eyes.

_Don't let your uncle see._

“He's not my English teacher anymore.”

_Fair point._

He deleted his typed-out side of the conversation and started the first letter.

 

_Alright, Sonja?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recognise that languages in this fic are a little bit everywhere, but as a rule of thumb, the Mooren kids talk to each other in Dutch, Laura and Céline talk to each other in French, and pretty much everyone else talks to each other in English. It's just all translated- I don't speak Dutch, I only kind of speak French, and neither of us wants to have to throw this whole fic into Google translate, do we? Whatever language it's in, Laura texts like a Facebook mum.


	10. Agatha's Fuckin' Baby Shower

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy quick warning for drug use and implied child abuse in this chapter? Also brief Nyo LadKug thing.
> 
> Names:  
> Agatha- Nyo England  
> Kris- Christiania (OC)  
> Beatrix- Nyo Kugelmugel

The room was thick with smoke. Alin had dabbled with drugs in his lifetime- a pill or two in various clubs, Natalya offering him a line one time- but there was something hilarious about three teachers, all in their ties and button-ups and slacks, sharing a blunt between them in Lars’s no-nonsense minimalist living room.

Gunner rose it above his head. “A toast!”

Lars blinked at him. “You can't toast with a blunt, you idiot.”

João burst into giggles.

“A  _ toast,” _ he continued, “to Lars. But he doesn't deserve it because he gets to stay in on Monday and us idiots don't.”

João took the blunt off Gunner. “He's literally dying, man.”

He blinked. “Oh yeah. Fuck. I’m sorry.”

Lars took a bite out of about ten sour cream and chive Pringles at once and shrugged. “Whatever. You’re the poor idiots who have to work on Monday.”

“You’re dying,” João pointed out, “Like… no more you.”

“Yeah. Means I get out of Agatha’s fuckin’ baby shower. I’ll take it.”

“Come on. It doesn’t scare you at all?”

Lars thought for a moment. “I mean, obviously, I’m dying, that’s bad. And there’s a lot of things I haven’t done. But I never wanted to… hike up Everest or whatever anyway. And I can’t now regardless. Can’t breathe air even when there’s loads of it, so up there it’d be like… no chance.”

Gunner lay down across João’s lap. “Also you get out of breath going upstairs.”

“Also that.”

“You sure it won't be a problem when we do the road trip?” João asked, passing Lars the weed. He took a long drag, then passed it to Gunner.

“Will sitting in a car for several days straight be a problem? No. I literally don't even have to walk.”

“Where do we go anyway?”

“What if-” Gunner pointed the blunt at Lars. “-we visited your little sister?”

Lars made a face. “I dunno…”

“Yes! We can visit her! Come on, man, do you really wanna never see her again?”

“Obviously not, but-”

“And Luca too!” João cheerfully took the blunt off Gunner.

“What? Luca hates me, man.”

“He can't hate you forever.”

“He can.” Lars tried not to sound sad about that. “We're a stubborn family, plus I'm pretty sure I burnt that bridge to the ground.”

“He’ll get over himself.”

“Get over himself? He has every right to be mad. I chucked him out onto the streets because I couldn't deal with my fucking feelings. He's got nothing to get over. If he's mad at me, I deserve it.”

João stroked his hair. If they weren't all high, Lars would have jerked his head away, but instead, he let him, headbutting his hand like a cat. “You deserve your brother back.”

“Not to be a self-pitying little bitch but I don't.”

“Maybe not. But you should still see him before you die.”

He decided he’d rather pass on this conversation. “Whatever. Whose car are we taking?”

“I don’t know,  _ but _ -“ João flashed one of those grins he always had when he got an excuse to talk about one of his dumb ideas “- do you remember when I used to talk about getting a caravan?”

Lars shook his head.

“You don’t remember? Back when we were dating? I said we should get a caravan, and you said you didn’t care whether or not I got a caravan, and I said it was for both of us, and you quickly changed the subject? I looked at them online sometimes? We got into several big arguments over the caravan that weren't about the caravan at all? When we broke up you said it was because I never shut up about caravans?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

“I remember it,” Gunner nodded, “You dragged me into the argument for no discernable reason.”

“You hated the caravan thing.”

“Probably. Sounds like a Lars move,” he shrugged.

“Anyway, with all this…” João gestured vaguely.

“Me dying?”

“Yeah. I was thinking, like, okay, if I want a caravan I should get a caravan before I die as well. Because I can die too. And I don’t know when it’s gonna happen, y’know? And I don’t wanna die without getting a caravan. So, yeah, I’m getting a caravan just in case I die and we can go in that.”

“Thought you were Catholic,” Gunner snorted, “Don’t they have caravans up there?”

“Probably. But I still want one here, just in case. Hedging my bets.”

“Aren’t they a little expensive for something you only want to get in case you die?” Lars asked.

“Yeah, a bit, but if we’re roadtripping we should have one.”

“But literally all of us have cars,” he pointed out, “We don’t need one.”

“Nah, it's not for driving. You can't drive a caravan.”

Gunner blinked. “You can't?”

“Yeah. You're thinking of campervans.”

“Same thing,” Lars grumbled.

“I just explained the difference ten seconds ago.”

“Whatever. Still same thing.”

“No!”

Gunner laughed at them. “So, we're all sleeping in a caravan?”

“Bit cramped, isn't it?” Lars wrinkled his nose. "All three of us?"

“Bring a tent, then, you-”

Lars interrupted João with another coughing fit. He doubled over, hacking his guts up into his hand. It was worse than usual. João rushed to his side, rubbing his back in some attempt to calm him down. Gunner tripped over himself getting him a glass of water.  He might have been coughing for a whole two minutes. Once he had his breath back, Lars wiped his hand on the inside of his pocket. It was a small splatter, barely noticeable, but he wanted to get rid of the evidence that he had just coughed up blood.

“Jesus. That was…”

“Bad, yes.” Lars sounded horribly hoarse. “Water.” Gunner passed Lars the glass, which he downed quickly. “Just the smoke. Not good for my lungs.”

João took the empty glass off him. “Is it getting worse?”

“I said smoke,” he snapped, “Shut up.” He could handle smoke. Even with his lungs in the state they were, he hadn’t choked on smoke since he was a kid.

“Do you wanna go sit outside?”

“Yeah. You stay in here though. Enjoy the rest of the weed. I just need some air.” Lars stood up, got himself another pint of water, opened the kitchen window, and sat out on the bench at the back. As he'd hoped (not  _ hoped _ , that was stupid, but for want of a better word, it would do) Alin appeared behind him in the window, pressing his face against the invisible barrier that stopped him getting out.

“You alright, baby?”

“Don't call me that,” he muttered, too low for Gunner and João to hear from the living room.

Alin smiled, humouring him. “You alright, bitch?”

“Fine. Coughing up literal blood, but fine.”

He gasped. “That's a thing in real life? Thought that was just- I mean, oh no!”

“Yeah, alright, don't get too excited, it was a splatter. Mostly phlegm.”

“That's so boring. I was hoping for, like, a gushing fountain. Oh well. Blood’s blood. I'll take what I can get.”

He shook his head, suppressing a chuckle. “You're so fucking weird.”

“Thank you. I do my best.”

Lars and Alin sat like that for a long moment. He was kind of a comforting presence, he had to admit. Lars put his hand on the windowsill. He didn't have to say a word for Alin to understand what he meant- he immediately felt the chilly cold of fingertips clipping through fingertips.

“Alin?”

“Hm?”

“This is definitely the drugs talking. Don't let it get your head. But you're a pretty alright guy, you know that?”

“Yes. I'm fantastic.”

“Oh, shut your mouth, you dumb twink.”

Alin grinned. “And he's back.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easy.”

“I don’t want to. It’s endearing.”

Lars looked down at his knees, hiding his face, but not moving his hand away from Alin’s.

“You alright?”

He nodded.

“Did I say something?”

He shook his head, enough for Alin to glimpse his face. His eyes lit up immediately, making far too much of a deal about it for Lars’ liking. “You’re smiling! You can  _ do _ that?”

He tried to scowl, but the cheerful lilt in his voice made it impossible. “Cut me some slack, Al, I’m high.”

* * *

 

Sonja didn't look up from her art coursework when Berwald came into her room. It wasn’t due until Wednesday, but for once she was actually on a roll with school work. If only she could get this much momentum going in Maths. She was so engrossed in sketching that she didn't even look up at what he'd put down next to her on the desk. All he got out of her was a grunt that might have been “thanks”.

“Sonja.”

She didn't look up. “Hm?”

“ _ Sonja.” _

She took out a headphone and glowered. “What do you-”

Berwald looked serious at the best of times. When they'd first moved in, Morgan had been wary of him- he scared her a little, even if Tino was nice. But as time went by, she learnt not only that he was the most harmless person you could ever meet, but that he had different kinds of serious, if you knew what to look for. He was rarely actually angry, he just had one of those faces. After what happened happened, maybe he’d closed up even more, but he never let it stand in his way. It would take more than that to make him let his family down. She and Tino would probably have crashed and burnt if it wasn’t for him. They had him to thank for a lot, but he himself was never really the same as he used to be. He was harder to read, but not impossible. She could tell when something was up with him. Right now, though? Who was to say?

He gestured to the envelope. “Just came through the letterbox. Read it.”

She put her pencil down and picked it up. Plain white. No address. All it said on it was “S”.

“What is it?”

He shrugged.

She tore the envelope open and took out the letter. It was typed out on A4, simple black Calibri font. She looked up at Berwald. He just nodded.

“Meet us in the living room.”

He slipped out of her door. As she started reading, she could hear his heavy steps going down the stairs.

_ Alright, Sonja? _

She didn't need to skim down to hear whose voice said that in her head.

_ Don't be scared. It’s me, Morgan, still as dead as the day you lot buried me. From beyond the grave. Wooooo. I know, it's mad, but all this is real. Trust me, mate, it messed with me too. I couldn’t breathe and then suddenly I didn’t need to. Suddenly I’m haunting the school. Mad. But maybe I should prove it’s really me somehow, just in case. I wouldn’t believe this shit neither. _

_ You never had a middle name, but Tino asked if he could give you Tove after that lady who wrote the hippo books when he first adopted us and you said yes because you loved them. I always called them the hippo books to piss you and Tino off. When you were 9 we went to the beach and you disappeared but I found you on a smaller one nearby with nobody else on it and you were throwing stones into the water and instead of telling them I'd found you like I was meant to, I taught you how to skim them until they found us both. Back before Tino and Berwald adopted us, your room was next to mine. Yours was all green and you had them stickers on your walls with the cartoon characters. You’re one of the only people who knows I’m scared of fire, you and Kris. You found out because we were out in the garden in autumn and he was behind a tree smoking and hiding but he dropped his cigarette and the leaves on the floor caught before he could put it out and I got all freaked out. You took me to your room while Kris was getting told off and I told you about the shit my dad did. I think you were the first person I told about him, actually. Personally, I mean. You were, like, 7, so I don’t know if you got all of it, but you’d been in care pretty much your whole life, so you probably got the gist. And then you became my best mate. And then you became my little sister. _

_ I hope all that’s convincing, or whatever. Anyway, it’s me. If you don’t believe me, you don’t believe me. _

_ I miss you, mate. You’re what, 17 now? 16? Still 16. I remember your last day. Dress to Impress, the school called it- it was just a prom, and not a very good one. The whole time you were at school, I watched you live your life. You started Year 7 and I was right in front of you, just begging for you to see me. Might have cried a bit. And then it was Dress to Impress. You and Beatrix came in matching suits and kissed in front of everyone after not telling anyone you were a thing for ages, it was so cool. Are you still a thing? I hope so, she was nice. _

_ Anyway. I hope you’re settling into college well. Doing art and computers and all that. You always were good at art. I can't remember you not drawing. I was bloody hopeless, but you always said I'd get there if I practiced. Probably a good point. Probably too late now. Can't hold a pen no more. My hands just slip through. Anyway, college. I don't need to ask how you're doing in lessons, you're the best artist ever, but I hope you're making friends. I mean, all these people who haven't even got to meet the amazing Sonja Oxenstjärna? Bloody awful. Poor bastards. _

_ Also, if you ever wanna talk, I can't leave the school or send another letter, but if you come here, I'll see you, even if you won't see me. You might struggle to get in, and it might be weird, but it's a thing. _

_ Since this is probably the last thing I'll be able to say to you, or whatever, look after our dads, alright? They’re good dads. You and me know the world needs more good dads. And yourself, more importantly. You're amazing and smart and I've known you're going to smash it for about as long as you've been my little sister. Get out there. Talk to people and whatever. I love you. _

_ Morgie. _

Sonja wiped her eyes on her duvet. She read the letter again, and then again. She folded it back up carefully and put it back in its envelope. How the  _ fuck _ was she meant to process all that?

First things first, she had to meet them downstairs, as Berwald had said. She padded into the living room, holding the letter gently so it wouldn't get crumpled, like it was something sacred. Tino and Berwald were sitting together on the couch, leaning on each other. Two other letters were on the coffee table, in the same font, next to envelopes with “T” and “B” written on them.

Tino gestured for her to sit with them. She squeezed in between the two, like when she was a kid, small enough to fit anywhere, like a cat slipping through a fence. It made her feel safe when she was 8, living with her first proper permanent family, and it made her feel safe now. Nobody spoke for a long moment. They just huddled together and took the situation in.

Tino broke the silence. “What do we do now?”

“What’s there to do?” Berwald replied.

“I dunno. This just feels like a doing things situation.”

Sonja rested her head on his shoulder. “She just wanted to get a message to us. Don’t think there’s anything we can do.”

Berwald picked up his letter. “Can we even be sure it’s her?”

Sonja nodded. “Definitely. I mean… I believe her.”

“Me too. I still feel like we should do something.”

Berwald held the two of them gently, rubbing Tino’s back. “Take care of each other.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should note that Kris actually bears no relation to Gunner in this fic. He's just some guy. But if you want to imagine some estranged relative of his, by all means, go ahead.


End file.
